\1MM«H 


"  Under    the  Trees"  is  a  late  publication  by  Harper  & 
Br  >s.    TLt;    leaves  were  written  out  of  doors,  and  the 
author,  Dr.  Iremeus  Prime,  yields  to  the  request  of  many 
friends  in  putting  them  under  the  cover  of  a  book.    This.,, 
with  the   dedication   "To  Lilly  Prime,   as  lovingly  in- 
scribed," is  all  the  preface  extended  to  some  thirty  chap- 
ters of  elegant  essays  on  as  many  different  themes.    It  is, 
indeed,  an  amaranthine  wreath,  and  highly  appropriate 
as   a  gift  ottering  to  refined  and  poetic  minds.      It  em- 
braces pictures  of  home   scenery  on   the   Hudson,   with 
sketchy  accounts  of  travel  abroad,  both  on  the  Continent 
and  in  England,  mingled  with  descriptive  accounts  of  the 
author' s  experience  in  foreign  travel  with  literary  celebri- 
ties.   The  work  is  enlivened  by  glimpses  of  genial  hu- 
mor,   tender     intercourse    with    friends    ac    home    andi 
abroad,  and  a  profound  exhibit  of  the  knowledge  of  hu- 
man nature  acquired  by  a  life-long,  extensive  observation 
and  study.    Apt  criticism  of  works  of  art  in  Florence,  in 
the  chapter  entitled  "Memories  of  Italy,"  is  an  essay  that 
will  commend  itself  to  the  literati,  and  if  the  old-claimed 
orthodoxy    of    the    author    calls    upon    him    to    protest 
against   the   making  of  the  numerous  Madonnas,   as    a 
breach   of  the  second  commandment,  his  broadness  of 
\ir\s-  tore*  b  him  to  acknowledge  that  the  great  works  of 
Michael   Angelo,  Titian  and  Raphael,   to  quote  his  own 
words,  "  are  the  great  boons  of  Romanism  to  mankind  .; 
and  as   such,  as  well  as  for  the  moral  and  intellectual 
tbat  is  in  them  to  instruct,  exalt  and  inspire  hu- 
manity, they  will  be  prized  even  by  those  whose  religious; 
system  rejects  them  from   among  its  means  of  grace.5* 
Hunting    b<  enes  in  tne  Adirondack s  and  short  essays 
opon  animals  are  combined   in  this  volume,  and  dwe'  ,t 
upon  in  the  chaste  and  natural  sUle  of  the  author,  tit  nov 
happily  blends  a  high  moral  tone  with  the  original  kr  eat- 
ment  of  the  subjects  under  review. 


//./£ 


^rBMiL^ 


Presented    to    Princeton    Theological   Seminary 
By  the  l^ev.  Wendell  Prime,  D.D. 

To  be  Kept  Always  as  a   Separate   Collection. 


mimK*mmmmm\ymm[\mmmmywmmmmmmmmmmm 


UNDER  THE  TREES. 


UNDER  THE  TREES. 


BY 


SAMUEL   IREN^EUS    PRIME. 


NEW    YORK: 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS, 

FRANKLIN     SQUARE. 
l874. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1874,  by 

Harper  &  Brothers, 

In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


TO 

£ilg  Prime 

THIS  VOLUME  IS 

LOVINGLY  INSCRIBED. 


NOTE. 

Many  of  these  miscellaneous  letters  and  papers  were 
written  out  of  doors,  and  the  writer  yields  to  the  request 
of  others  in  putting  them  under  the  cover  of  a  book. 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

I.    OUR   TENT    PITCHED 9 

II.    THE    GARDEN    AND    GARDENS 14 

III.    THE    ROSES 19 

IV.    THE    BIRDS 24 

V.    INSECT    LIFE 3 J 

VI.    SUNSHINE 4° 

VII.  SHOWERS 44 

VIII.    BUGS 48 

IX.    AN    ARROW-HEAD 53 

X.    OCTOBER 59 

XI.  a  friend's  visit 63 

XII.  conversation 68 

XIII.    AUTHORS 73 

XIV.    DOGS 80 

XV.    THE   ADIRONDACKS 92 

XVI.    WITH  THE    OLD  MAN    OF   THE  MOUNTAINS.  137 

XVII.    MEMORIES    OF    ITALY 147 

XVIII.    A   NIGHT   AND   A    DAY    IN    THE   ALPS 177 

XIX.    A   NIGHT    AND    A    DAY    IN   THE    DEEP 195 

XX.   A  parson's  STORY 201 

XXI.    PROPHETS    AND    PROPHETESSES 237 

XXII.    ON    LYING   AND    LENDING 261 

XXIII.  LITTLE    TRIALS 269 

XXIV.  TALKING   TO    MAN    AND    BEAST 273 

XXV.    LOVING    AND   DOING 277 

XXVI.    THE   NEGLECTED    GRAVEYARD 284 

XXVII.    WHENCE    COMFORT    COMES 289 

XXVIII.    MY    FIRST    AND    LAST   GREAT   SERMON 299 

XXIX.    THE    LAST    DAY    OF    SUMMER 3°4 

XXX.    OUR    FRIENDS    IN    HEAVEN 3IQ 


UNDER  THE  TREES 


I. 

OUR  TENT  PITCHED. 

It  is  said  that  fools  build  houses  and  wise  men  live  in 
them.  This  is  not  true  of  the  place  where  we  have  now 
set  up  our  household  gods,  and  in  the  midst  of  confusion 
yet  feel  already  a  sense  of  at-home-ativeness,  never  en- 
joyed more  completely  since  the  sunny  days  of  childhood. 
For  it  was  a  wise  man  who  chose  this  spot  for  his  house, 
and  here  made  for  himself  a  home.  His  judgment,  taste, 
and  skill  are  seen  all  over  it,  and  if  in  this  changing  world 
it  has  finally  fallen  into  our  hands,  we  will  not  call  him 
unwise,  but  rather  be  glad  that  he  was  led  to  make  it 
what  it  is,  that  it  might  be  all  the  more  enjoyable  for  us. 

It  is  on  the  banks  of  the  Hudson.  From  this  rustic 
seat  where  I  am  writing  you  might  throw  a  stone  far  into 
the  river.  Twenty  miles  or  more  of  this  glorious  stream, 
embracing  the  whole  of  Tappan  Zee,  lie  in  full  view,  and 
from  the  house  some  forty  or  fifty  miles  of  river,  forest, 
and  mountains  spread  themselves  continuously  at  our 
feet.  Between  five  and  six  acres  of  land,  chiefly  covered 
with  old  trees,  a  wild  glen  crossed  by  rustic  bridges  on 
the  southern  side  of  it,  walks  winding  through  the  woods 


IO  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

and  in  constant  sight  of  the  waters,  garden  and  fruits  and 
flowers,  which  for  many  years  have  been  coming  to  their 
present  condition,  ornamental  shade-trees,  and  evergreens 
arranged  to  give  effect  and  beauty  to  the  lawn  and  land- 
scape, are  the  outline  features  of  the  place.  It  is  the 
midst  of  spring.  The  cherry-trees  have  been  in  full 
bloom,  and  the  apples  and  pears  are  now  getting  to  blows. 
The  birds  have  a  carnival  of  song  all  over  the  woods,  and 
about  sunrise  they  seem  to  meet  for  morning  praise,  and 
hold  a  concert  near  the  house.  Three  pairs  of  them  have 
built  their  nests  in  the  piazzas,  and  are  as  much  at  home 
as  any  of  the  family.  They  shall  have  their  board  and 
lodging  without  charge,  and  the  longer  they  stay,  the  bet- 
ter we  shall  like  it. 

We  have  not  been  here  a  week,  and  have  yet  to  learn 
by  experience  the  various  inconveniences  which  every 
place  in  this  world  has  ;  but  just  now  every  thing  is  around 
us  to  make  up  the  comfort  and  beauty  of  a  rural  home. 
It  is  about  twenty  miles  from  the  city,  and  the  railroad 
and  steamboat  take  us  to  town  or  from  it  a  dozen  times 
a  day,  if  we  should,  wish  to  go  so  often.  It  is  about  three 
miles  below  the  Sunnyside  of  Washington  Irving,  and  in 
the  midst  of  scores  of  our  fellow-citizens  who  have  found 
on  the  eastern  bank  of  the  Hudson  River  the  most  ele- 
gant, costly,  and  healthful  situations  for  their  summer  res- 
idences. Every  part  of  the  Hudson  River  is  so  beautiful 
that  each  inhabitant  of  the  shore  and  the  adjacent  hills 
thinks  his  own  spot  the  most  beautiful,  and  he  can  make 
a  very  good  argument  in  support  of  his  opinion.  But  the 
region  that  we  are  in,  and  which  is  in  full  view  of  the  old 
arbor  under  the  trees,  has  been  made  classic  by  the  pen 
and  the  life  and  death  of  Irving,  whose  placid  and  genial 
humor  has  rendered  every  subject  and  every  place  that 


OUR   TENT   PITCHED.  II 

he  touched  immortal  in  the  affections  of  his  countrymen. 
This  Tappan  Sea  was  the  terror  of  the  early  Dutch  navi- 
gators, who  made  its  perilous  passage  with  more  fear  and 
trembling  than  their  children  feel  when  crossing  the 
ocean.  It  is  the  widest  portion  of  the  river,  being  three 
or  four  miles.  We  are  constantly  tempted  to  look  out 
on  the  ever-changing  surface  of  the  water.  The  steam- 
boats that  pass,  more  than  hourly,  enliven  and  diversify 
the  view.  A  lady  sitting  by  me  was  a  passenger  on  the 
first  steamer  that  ever  disturbed  the  waters  of  the  Hud- 
son, and  of  course  the  first  in  the  world  !  What  changes 
have  since  come  over  the  shores  and  over  the  world ! 

Yet  she  is  only years  of  age,  and  has  seen  all  the 

progress  of  the  country  and  the  age  since  that  experiment 
of  Fulton's  was  made,  revolutionizing  the  commerce  and 
intercourse  of  mankind. 

Those  who  have  been  on  the  Rhine  delight  to  speak 
of  its  romantic  beauty,  its  vine-clad  hillsides,  its  castle- 
crowned  crags,  and  mighty  fortresses.  A  day  on  the 
Rhine  is  a  lifetime  picture  of  beauty  and  grandeur.  But 
it  is  not  patriotism  alone  that  challenges  the  Rhine  or 
any  other  to  compete  with  this  tranquil  river  in  majestic 
scenery  and  picturesque  effects.  Long  may  it  be  before 
its  heights  are  crowned  with  citadels,  and  its  people  forti- 
fied against  their  neighbors.  A  few  miles  of  the  Rhine 
are  exceedingly  lovely,  but  a  day's  voyage  on  the  Hudson 
furnishes  far  more  enchanting  scenery,  and  to  a  dweller  on 
its  banks  it  spreads  a  perpetual  feast. 

And  here  we  have  pitched  our  tent.  Strangers  and 
pilgrims  on  the  earth,  as  all  our  fathers  were,  it  is  well  to 
feel  that  "this  is  not  our  rest."  We  have  no  continuing 
city,  no  abiding-place.  Others  have  been  in  these  beau- 
tiful groves.     This  rustic  summer  seat,  falling  into  decay. 


12  UNDER   THE    TREES. 

speaks  of  former  possessors  who  doubtless  here  sat  down 
to  stay,  but  the  places  that  then  knew  them  will  know  them 
no  more.  It  may  be  so  with  us,  even  if  the  stream  of  life, 
like  this  bright,  clear  river,  should  flow  on  these  many 
years. 

The  current  of  thought  has  been  broken  by  a  thunder- 
shower  that  drove  me  to  a  better  shelter.  The  sight  and 
sound  were  another  of  the  entertainments  to  which  we  are 
invited.  For  an  hour  or  two  I  had  been  observing  the 
clouds  in  the  upper  bay,  and  around  Mount  Taurn  they 
were  black  with  signs  of  a  storm.  The  sun  was  obscured, 
but  this  was  pleasant  toward  the  close  of  a  warm  day. 
Presently  a  sharp  crack  of  a  thunderbolt  and  the  glare 
of  the  lightning  filled  the  air,  and  the  rain  came  in  tor- 
rents. It  was  short  and  sweet.  The  dark  cloud  pursued 
its  path  down  the  river,  its  footsteps  in  the  deep ;  and 
soon  the  sun  tricked  his  beams  and  stood  out  in  the  west- 
ern sky,  more  lustrous  than  before  the  rain.  He  has  just 
sunk  down  into  a  bed  of  golden  clouds,  that  lie  on  the 
hills  directly  in  front  of  us.  A  broad  belt  of  sunlight 
stretches  across  the  river;  the  whole  western  firmament 
is  aglow  ;  the  vessels  that  cross  the  track  of  the  sunshine 
are  covered  with  the  light  of  it  as  if  they  had  been  sud- 
denly set  on  fire,  and  all  nature  at  this  evening  hour 
seems  to  rejoice  and  be  glad  in  the  beauty  of  its  fresh 
verdure,  refreshed  with  showers.  It  is  very  still  now. 
Nothing  breaks  in  on  the  silence  of  the  hour  and  the 
scene  but  the  murmurs  of  the  tree-tops,  and  the  gentle 
wash  of  the  water  on  the  shore. 

"  The  time,  how  lovely  and  how  still, 

Peace  shines  and  smiles  on  all  below  ; 

The  plain,  the  stream,  the  wood,  the  hill — 

All  fair  with  evening's  setting  glow." 


OUR   TENT   PITCHED.  1 3 

It  is  hard  to  make  it  real  that  so  much  calmness,  peace, 
and  beauty  can  be  and  abound  in  a  world  with  evil  in  it. 
It  is  a  beautiful  world ;  and  the  true  heart  swells  grate- 
fully to  its  Maker  in -the  midst  of  loveliness  and  glory 
like  this.  "  Every  prospect  pleases."  The  earth  is  going 
to  rest,  and  soon  the  voices  of  tired  nature  will  be  silent. 
But  the  praise  of  God  goes  up  with  evening  hymns  from 
all  the  dwellers  on  the  river-side,  and  from  those  across 
the  stream,  and  from  these  crowded  steamers  that  are 
rushing  by  on  their  journeys.  Who  can  be  thankless  in 
such  a  world,  with  God  all  around  us,  and  a  better  world 
than  this  to  come  ? 


II. 

THE  GARDEN  AND  GARDENS. 

It  is  high  time  that  the  gardens  were  made  and  the 
vegetables  fairly  on  their  way  toward  perfection.  But  we 
were  so  late  in  coming  into  the  country  that  we  can  make 
no  attempt  this  year  to  have  things  early. 

While  out  before  breakfast  this  morning  among  the 
roses,  radishes,  and  cucumbers,  it  occurred  to  me  that  the 
first  labor  of  our  first  parent,  father  Adam,  was  something 
of  the  same,  for  he  was  placed  by  his  infinitely  wise  Cre- 
ator in  a  garden  to  dress  and  keep  it.  When  he  awoke 
from  one  of  his  earliest  sleeps,  and  found  by  his  side  a 
full-blown  bride,  he  had  such  a  vision  of  beauty  as  his 
eyes  afterward  never  saw  in  the  fairest  flowers  that  sprang 
beneath  his  fostering  hands.  And  when  they  went  to- 
gether to  their  morning  work,  in  that  Eden  which  the 
Lord  made  for  them  before  he  made  them,  they  found  it 
of  all  conceivable  employments  the  most  congenial  to 
their  innocence  and  purity.  I  believe  in  the  garden  of 
Eden;  the  tree  of  knowledge  of  good  and  evil;  the  tree  of 
life ;  the  serpent :  the  temptation  ;  the  fall  that  "  brought 
death  into  the  world,  and  all  our  woe."  It  is  a  thousand 
times  harder  to  believe  the  miserable  substitutes  for  the 
history  of  the  Bible,  than  to  take  it  as  it  is  and  admit  that 
the  greatest  miracle  was  creation.  After  believing  that 
the  world  was  made  out  of  nothing,  it  is  easy  enough  to 
believe  all  the  rest. 


THE    GARDEN  AND   GARDENS.  1 5 

Out  in  the  early  morning  upon  the  paths  of  nature,  and 
communing  with  God  in  the  works  of  his  hands,  it  is  sweet 
beyond  expression  to  feel  that  the  same  hands  which  fash- 
ioned the  heavens,  and  hung  out  the  stars,  and  decked  the 
earth  with  loveliness,  what  time  the  sons  of  God  shouted 
for  joy,  made  the  first  garden,  and  planted  the  flowers  and 
the  fruits,  watered  them  with  the  rivers  of  his  pleasure, 
and  made  for  his  creatures  a  Paradise  in  which  he  him- 
self loved  to  walk  in  the  cool  of  the  day  and  converse 
with  them,  his  loving  children,  as  friend  with  friend. 
There  was  some  wise  design  in  this  arrangement  of  his; 
and  from  that  glad  morning  in  which  our  primeval  an- 
cestors began  their  work  to  the  present  hour,  no  em- 
ployment on  earth  has  been  found  to  combine  more  com- 
pletely the  idea  of  the  useful  and  the  beautiful  than  this, 
from  the  effect  of  which  just  now  I  confess  some  aches 
and  pains  that  are  hardly  in  harmony  with  that  last  line. 
But  we  shall  get  used  to  it  shortly,  and  then  the  work  will 
be  more  like  play,  and  leave  only  pleasant  reminders  in 
renovated  health  and  increasing  vigor. 

And  since  those  good  old  times  when  Adam  and  Eve 
were  alone  in  their  glory  of  innocence  and  beauty,  their 
children  have  in  all  ages  spent  their  highest  skill  and 
strength  in  the  embellishment  of  the  garden.  Among 
the  wonders  of  the  world  were  the  hanging  gardens  of 
Babylon.  With  what  a  lavish  hand  did  King  Solomon 
adorn  his  gardens,  pursuing  the  study  and  culture  of 
plants  till  he  knew  them  all,  from  the  cedar  of  Lebanon 
to  the  hyssop  on  the  wall.  Yet  a  greater  than  Solomon 
has  told  us  that  in  all  his  glory  he  was  not  arrayed  like 
one  of  his  own  flowers,  and  that  one  of  the  most  delicate 
— the  lily.  Ten  years  ago  I  was  climbing  up  the  hill  of 
Samaria,  where  even  now,  after  the  rains  of  two  thousand 


1 6  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

years  have  washed  its  terraces,  we  can  yet  see  the  remains 
of  magnificent  beauty  that  once  environed  its  slopes  and 
crowned  its  summit,  making  it  a  gorgeous  spectacle,  prob- 
ably unsurpassed  by  any  thing  on  the  earth  in  the  days 
of  Herod  the.  Great.  And  away  on  the  banks  of  the 
Bosphorus  are  "  the  Gardens  of  the  Blessed,"  where  the 
daughters  of  the  East,  more  beautiful  than  the  flowers, 
may  lay  aside  their  perpetual  veils,  and  wander  and  waste 
their  indolent  lives.  Every  city  of  Europe  that  aspires  to 
rank  has  its  broad  acres  in  public  gardens  for  the  instruc- 
tion and  delight  of  the  people,  where  bands  of  music  en- 
tertain them ;  and  to  their  credit  let  it  be  said  that,  while 
thousands  walk  for  hours  among  beds  of  tempting  beauty, 
not  one  will  put  forth  his  hand  to  pick  a  flower.  He  feels 
that  it  is  his  where  it  is ;  it  grows  and  blooms  there  for 
his  pleasure,  and  to  pluck  it  would  destroy  his  own  and 
others'.  This  is  a  popular  education  we  have  not  attained 
in  our  free  and  enlightened  country.  There  is  not  a  city 
of  this  land  where  the  people  could  have  free  access  to 
a  public  garden  without  a  strict  police,  to  see  that  the 
sovereigns  do  not  steal  their  own  property.  The  "  Cen- 
tral Park"  is  by  far  the  noblest  public  promenade  in 
America,  resorted  to  already  by  thousands  daily — yet  even 
here,  in  our  great  metropolis,  ladfes  are  desired  not  to 
carry  flowers  into  the  park  in  their  carriages,  that  the 
police  may  be  able  to  take  it  for  granted  that  any  one 
with  flowers  in  his  hands  has  stolen  them,  and  is  to  be 
treated  accordingly.  Even  in  our  rural  cemeteries,  where 
the  flowers  cover  the  ashes  of  the  dead — emblems  of  the 
loveliness  and  frailty  that  perishes  below,  and  emblems, 
too,  of  the  beauty  of  the  love  that  cherishes  the  memory 
of  the  departed — even  here  our  fair  countrywomen — not  to 
say  the  men,  of  course — will  steal  flowers. 


THE    GARDEN    AND    GARDENS. 


n 


In  the  city  of  Florence,  the  fairest  city  in  beautiful  Italy, 
the  city  of  art  and  song,  some  of  the  masterpieces  of  the 
great  masters  of  sculpture,  such  as  the  David  of  Michael 
Angelo,  stand  out  in  the  open  street,  exposed  to  the  haz- 
ards of  accident  or  to  wanton  recklessness ;  yet  there  for 
centuries  may  stand  the  delicate  marble  that  a  stone  from 
the  hand  of  a  rude  boy  would  mar  forever,  and  yet  it  is 
safe  as  in  the  halls  of  the  Pitti  Palace  itself.  Universal 
homage  protects  these  memorials  that  genius  has  left  for 
posterity  to  cherish  and  admire.  In  a  little  village,  the 
name  of  which  is  so  obscure  that  I  have  forgotten  it,  the 
"  Common "  was  a  beautiful  garden  surrounded  by  nu- 
merous marble  statues  of  poets  and  artists  and  patriots, 
evidences  of  the  spirit  and  taste  of  the  people  who  thus 
delighted  to  adorn  their  rural  neighborhood. 

On  the  banks  of  Lake  Como,  in  Northern  Italy,  there 
are  hundreds  of  palaces,  the  abodes  of  men  and  women 
of  wealth  and  genius  and  fame,  some  of  them  artists, 
others  celebrated  singers,  and  others  whose  riches  have 
come  down  to  them  by  inheritance,  and  these  people  or 
their  predecessors  have  made  the  shores  of  this  enchant- 
ing lake  a  garden,  or  gardens,  of  surpassing  splendor. 
You  may  stop,  almost  at  random,  and  be  charmed  with 
the  scenes  of  loveliness  that  meet  your  eyes  as  soon  as 
you  step  ashore.  And  instead  of  being  warned  off  by  a 
sign-board  that  "all  persons  are  forbid  trespassing  on 
these  grounds,"  you  are  kindly  admitted  through  the  hos- 
pitable gates,  and  permitted  to  enjoy  at  your  leisure  the 
feast  of  beauty  that  is  here  spread  at  your  feet.  One  of 
these  gardens  is  around  a  hill— a  steep  and  high  hill- 
terraced  from  the  sole  of  its  foot  to  the  crown  of  its  head  ; 
and  each  successive  terrace  is  adorned  with  flowers  and 
plants  in  luxuriant  growth,  representing  different  climes, 

B 


l8  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

so  that  the  visitor,  as  he  walked  around  and  gradually 
ascended  the  hill,  was  cheated  with  the  illusion  that  he 
was  reaching  a  colder  and  still  colder  region  as  he  climbs. 
Toward  the  summit  the  hill  is  pierced  with  a  tunnel 
three  hundred  feet  long,  and  wide  enough  for  a- coach  to 
be  driven  through ;  the  path  is  curved  like  a  rainbow,  and 
standing  in  the  centre  of  it,  you  can  look  out  both  ways 
on  lakes  that  lie  on  opposite  sides  of  this  remarkable 
garden  hill.  And  this  splendid  spot,  on  which  wealth  is 
freely  lavished  with  taste  and  toil,  belongs  to  a  gentleman 
whose  duties  in  the  army  keep  him  almost  constantly  from 
home,  and  he  rarely  visits  the  place  on  which  he  expends 
his  ancestral  treasure  ;  but  he  freely  allows  it  to  be  thrown 
open  to  travelers,  who  delight  to  carry  away  with  them 
recollections  of  its  beauty,  and  liberality  of  its  princely 
proprietor. 

No  memories  of  England  are  more  delightful  than  those 
of  her  parks  and  gardens ;  art  has  made  castles  and  ca- 
thedrals and  libraries,  and  yet  art  has  no  power  to  please 
like  that  of  nature  in  the  hands  of  art.  We  have  a  vivid 
idea  of  Westminster  Abbey  before  seeing  it,  but  Chats- 
worth  is  a  world  of  whose  existence  we  have  no  concep- 
tion till  its  cultivated  grounds  are  all  around  us. 


III. 

THE  ROSES. 

Just  now  there  are  at  least  a  thousand,  perhaps  two  thou- 
sand roses  in  full  bloom  in  sight  as  I  sit  on  an  old  tumble- 
down settee  under  a  tree  in  the  midst  of  the  garden.  They 
are  of  all  known  colors  for  roses,  and  their  names  are  far 
beyond  my  attainments  in  the  science  of  flowers.  Beau- 
tiful exceedingly,  we  can  repeat  again  and  again  as  we 
look  at  them,  but  even  as  we  look  they  are  passing  away. 
Beauty  soon  decays.  And  this  led  me  off  into  a  med- 
itative ramble  on  the  old  question  of  the  distinction  be- 
tween the  useful  and  the  beautiful,  as  if  beauty  were  not 
useful,  and  the  useful  necessarily  not  beautiful.  And  it 
occurred  to  me  that  there  is  another  question  to  be  an- 
swered first,  on  the  answer  depending  the  result  to  which 
we  shall  come  in  looking  after  the  comparative  merits  of 
cabbage-roses  and  cabbages. 

If  we  live  to  eat,  and  that  is  most  to  be  desired  which 
gives  us  food ;  if  we  live  to  dress,  and  that  is  best  that 
yields  us  clothes,  we  shall  very  soon  have  a  standard  by 
which  to  measure  the  value  of  every  thing  within  our 
reach.  But  by  so  much  as  the  inner  life  is  more  than  the 
visible,  and  the  enjoyment  and  advancement  of  the  soul 
more  to  be  desired  than  the  lust  of  the  flesh  or  the  pride  of 
life,  so  is  the  gratification,  the  cultivation,  and  perfection  of 
the  higher  tastes  to  be  esteemed  of  more  account  than  those 
which  man  has  in  common  with  the  brutes  that  perish. 


20  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

Home  Tooke  defined  virtue  to  be  any  thing  that  answers 
its  purpose — certainly  a  very  low  and  disgusting  concep- 
tion of  the  term.  But  we  may  say  that  every  thing  beau- 
tiful is  or  ought  to  be  useful,  and  if  it  is  not  so,  it  is  either 
neglected  or  abused.  Because  more  than  one  half  of  the 
world  go  through  it  without  a  thought  of  the  charms  with 
which  its  face  is  clothed,  we  often  fall  into  the  mistake  of 
thinking  that  beauty  is  thrown  away  on  them,  and  re- 
served only  for  those  whose  eyes  have  been  anointed  by 
culture  or  association.  But  when  I  was  in  New  York  a 
few  days  ago,  in  a  part  of  it  where  poverty  alone  would 
be  content  to  dwell,  and  the  last  place  in  the  city  where 
one  would  look  for  taste  and  beauty,  I  saw  the  third-story 
windows  of  one  of  the  houses  filled  with  pots  of  flowers, 
set  out  on  the  sills  to  catch  the  sweet  influences  of  the 
spring-time  sun,  and  it  was  pleasing  to  reflect  that  up  in 
those  small,  unventilated  rooms,  where  the  poor  women 
must  spend  the  whole  year  and  never  once  get  out  into 
the  country  to  enjoy  such  a  wealth  of  floral  beauty  as  this 
sweet  June  unfolds,  they  can  and  will  have  their  few  pet 
flowers,  on  which  to  lavish  their  affectionate  care,  and  get 
the  return  that  beauty  gives  to  its  humblest  lover.  Cole- 
ridge was  admiring  a  waterfall,  and  overheard  a  man  near 
him  who  said  "  Majestic."  The  poet  turned  to  him,  and 
said,  "  That  is  the  very  word."  "  Yes,"  continued  the  ad- 
miring rustic,  "  it  is  jest  the  purtiest,  majesticest  thing  I 
ever  seed."  He  had  the  soul  to  admire  and  enjoy  it,  but 
rhetoric  was  not  his  forte.  One  of  our  greatest  heroes 
and  statesmen  had  been  neglected  in  the  days  of  his 
youth,  and  he  never  recovered  from  the  effects  of  such 
neglect.  Some  of  his  words  were  quite  as  peculiar  as 
Mrs.  Partington's.  Yet  he  loved  flowers  and  had  a  glori- 
ous garden,  in  which  he  was  walking  one  day  with  a  friend 


THE    ROSES.  21 

who  admired  its  splendor,  and  said  to  him,  "  You  have  a 
fine  taste  for  horticulture."  "Oh  yes,"  said  he,  "I  was 
always  fond  of  horses." 

The  ox  looks  out  on  a  green  meadow  and  admires  it  as 
it  is  good  for  food.  Is  he  any  better  than  an  ox  who  sees 
in  a  rose  only  what  it  will  bring  in  market  ?  Beauty  cer- 
tainly has  higher  uses  than  to  enrich  its  owner.  The  value 
we  set  on  a  painting  or  a  statue  has  no  relation  to  the 
price  it  will  bring,  unless  we  are  in  the  "  picture  line."  I 
was  looking  the  other  day  at  a  painting — a  single  portrait 
— that  the  owner  will  not  sell  for  $10,000.  Mr.  Church 
painted  his  last  Niagara,  the  "Under  the  Fall,"  in  six 
hours,  from  the  white  canvas  to  the  last  touch.  I  was 
unwilling  to  believe  it,  till  he  told  me  so  himself.  Mr. 
Roberts,  the  liberal  gentleman  for  whom  it  was  painted, 
gave  him  $1500  for  it.  The  amount  of  .time  and  labor 
expended  seems  to  be  in  no  proper  proportion  to  the 
price  paid ;  but  the  possessor  has  value  in  it  far  beyond 
the  money  that  he  parted  with  to  secure  such  a  "  thing  of 
beauty  "  for  himself  and  friends.  Every  body  can  not  have 
Niagara  or  a  Church's  painting  of  it.  When  an  American 
lady  was  visiting  England  a  few  years  ago,  she  was  asked 
"if  she  had  seen  Niagara  Falls."  "Oh,  certainly,"  said 
she,  "  I  own  them."  She  was,  indeed,  one  of  the  owners 
— Miss  Porter  of  Niagara.  But  if  we  can  not  own  all  the 
beauty  and  glory  in  the  world  around  us,  we  may  enjoy  it, 
and  so  make  all  the  earth  our  own.  The  possession  of 
it  sometimes  poisons  the  enjoyment.  Lady  Coventry  was 
so  proud  of  her  beauty  that  she  always  sat  with  her  mirror 
in  hand ;  when  sickness  made  ravages  in  her  charms,  she 
had  her  windows  darkened,  that  the  wrinkles  might  not 
be  so  palpable ;  and  when  she  grew  worse,  she  received 
her  food  and  medicine  through  the  closed  curtains  of  her^ 


22  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

couch,  refusing  to  be  seen  even  by  her  most  intimate 
friends — and  so  she  died  !  This  is  the  madness  of  beauty, 
of  which  we  have  another  example  in  the  case  of  a  young 
lady  who  admired  her  own  beauty  so  much  that  she  could 
not  believe  it  possible  for  her  to  die,  and  when  she  was 
wasting  away  with  consumption,  she  had  a  mirror  always 
before  her  that  she  might  delight  herself  in  the  charms 
that  were  fading  from  all  eyes  but  her  own.  She  died 
raving  mad  because  she  must  die. 

The  love  of  beauty  is  not  a  fault.  The  love  of  being 
admired  is  not  a  fault.  God  himself,  all  holy  and  the 
perfection  of  beauty,  loves  to  be  admired  in  and  by  his 
saints.  And  in  the  ranks  of  all  his  sentient  beings,  how 
far  down  we  can  not  say,  this  love  reigns,  a  common,  per- 
haps universal  law  of  being.  Some  plants  shrink  from 
the  touch,  and  we  call  them  sensitive ;  and  these  flowers 
seem  to  smile  in  the  morning  sunlight  as  if  they  took  de- 
light in  the  beauty  with  which  the  hand  of  God  has  clothed 
them.  The  love  of  the  beautiful  is  a  virtue ;  it  is  useful 
in  itself;  it  makes  a  people  more  gentle,  refined,  courte- 
ous, and  happy.  It  is  to  be  encouraged,  stimulated,  and 
developed. 

It  is  a  good,  but  not  to  kalon,  the  good — not  the  highest 
good.  It  may  exist,  and  it  has  been,  in  the  midst  of  the 
lowest  moral  debasement.  The  love  of  the  beautiful  in 
nature  and  art  never  flourished  more  luxuriantly  in  Greece 
and  Italy  than  in  the  days  of  their  vilest  corruption  and 
degeneracy.  Kritobulus  at  one  of  the  banquets  of  Xen- 
ophon  said :  "  By  the  gods,  I  would  rather  be  beautiful 
than  be  King  of  Persia."  And  a  modern  writer  says  that 
"  the  four  things  most  desirable  as  a  crown  to  the  happi- 
ness of  life  are  beauty,  riches,  health,  and  friends  ;"  plac- 
ing beauty  at  the  head  of  the  list.    I  would  reverse  the  order 


THE    ROSES.  23 

precisely,  and  first  ask  friends,  then  health,  then  wealth, 
and  then  beauty.  Before  all  these,  of  course,  a  right  mind 
would  have  One  Friend,  and  if  the  rest  were  added,  what 
more  could  heart  desire  !  If  we  put  beauty  last,  it  is  be- 
cause it  is  the  crown  and  glory  of  all  the  rest.  Hence, 
woman  was  made  last,  and  the  last  becomes  first.  Ana- 
creon  sings  of  woman  endowed  with  beauty,  in  which  she 
is  stronger  than  lions  or  men.  Beauty  in  nature  is  woman 
in  creation.  Our  sweetest  Christian  poet,  in  his  "  World 
before  the  Flood,"  recounts  the  work  of  creation,  day  by 
day,  and  in  language  of  high  poetic  fancy  speaks  of  the 
several  parts  of  the  work  as  done  by  the  various  energies 
or  faculties  of  the  Creator :  thus  He  looked,  and  "  sun  and 
stars  came  forth  to  meet  his  eye."  And  last  of  all  when 
he  comes  to  the  creation  of  Woman,  the  poet  says : 
"  He  made  her  with  a  smile  of  grace, 
And  left  the  smile  that  made  her,  on  her  face." 

Thus  beauty  is  the  smile  of  the  Lord ;  the  charm  of 
being ;  the  fertile  garden  in  the  desert  of  life.  We  might 
live  without  it,  and  so  we  might  live  if  we  were  blind. 
But  what  the  earth  now  is  to  the  blind,  it  would  be  to  all 
if  nothing  grew  but  what  is  good  to  eat  or  wear.  If"  that 
reforming  ass"  who  wished  to  "take  down  the  sun  and 
light  the  world  with  gas"  were  to  root  out  all  flowers  in 
the  pathway  of  life,  and  plant  it  with  corn,  he  would 
prove  his  wisdom  by  the  length  of  his  ears. 


IV. 

THE  BIRDS. 

Our  daily  and  constant  companions,  as  we  sit  under 
the  trees,  are  the  birds  in  the  boughs  overhead.  I  have 
tried  several  times  to  reckon  the  number  and  varieties  of 
feathered  songsters  who  are  part  and  parcel  of  the  house- 
hold. We  allow  no  gun  to  be  fired  on  the  premises,  no 
bird  to  be  disturbed  in  the  pursuit  of  an  honest  living,  or 
in  the  care  of  his  own  family,  and  consequently  the  birds 
are  very  familiar  and  abundant.  Besides  the  sparrows, 
cedar-birds,  yellow-birds,  orioles,  robins,  phcebes,  wrens, 
thrushes,  quails,  and  larks,  we  have  the  mocking-birds  in 
great  numbers,  whose  music  is  wonderful  for  its  sweetness 
and  variety ;  misleading  us  often  into  the  idea  that  the 
various  tribes  have  gathered  about  us  to  give  a  grand 
concert,  the  finest  singers  having  "volunteered  their  serv- 
ices for  this  occasion."  But  after  watching  to  see  as 
well  as  to  hear,  we  find  that  most  of  the  music  comes  from 
the  mocking-birds,  whose  skill  is  so  remarkable  as  to  de- 
ceive the  best  ear.  It  becomes  a  curious  question,  Why 
do  the  birds  sing  ?  Have  they  themselves  a  musical  ear, 
an  organization  peculiarly  favorable  to  the  enjoyment  of 
song? 

It  is  mentioned  in  an  interesting  work,  entitled  "  Mis- 
cellanea Curiosa,"  that  Mr.  Clayton  and  Dr.  Maudlin 
discovered  a  remarkable  peculiarity  in  the  structure  of 
the  ears  of  birds,  particularly  those  distinguished  for  their 


THE    BIRDS. 


25 


song.  Contrary  to  what  takes  place  in  man  or  in  quad- 
rupeds, there  is  in  birds  almost  a  direct  passage  from  one 
ear  to  the  other,  so  that,  if  the  drum  of  both  ears  be  pricked, 
water  will  pass,  when  poured  in,  from  one  ear  to  the  other. 
There  is,  however,  no  cochlea,  but  a  small  cochlea  pas- 
sage, which  opens  into  a  large  cavity,  formed  between  the 
two  bony  plates  of  the  skull,  and  this  passes  all  round  the 
head.  The  upper  and  external  plate  of  the  bone  forming 
the  skull  is  supported  by  many  hundreds  of  small  thread- 
like pillars  or  columns,  which  rest  upon  the  lower  and 
interior  plate,  immediately  over  the  brain.  Now,  what  is 
worthy  of  attention  is  that  this  passage  between  the  outer 
and  inner  plates  of  the  skull  was  observed  to  be  strikingly 
larger  in  song-birds  than  in  birds  which  are  not  possessed 
of  musical  powers.  So  very  remarkable  is  this  difference 
described  to  be,  that  any  person  to  whom  it  has  been 
once  pointed  out  may  readily  pronounce,  upon  inspecting 
the  skull  of  a  bird,  whether  it  was  a  bird  of  song  or  other- 
wise, though  he  might  have  no  previous  knowledge  of  the 
bird  or  its  habits.  No  other  animal,  examined  with  a  view 
to  comparison  in  these  particulars,  was  found  to  have  any 
resemblance  of  conformation,  except  the  mole — an  animal 
reputed  to  be  very  quick  of  hearing.  This  singular  con- 
struction of  the  skull  in  birds  is  evidently  conformable  to 
the  known  principles  of  acoustics,  and  is,  in  fact,  a  sort 
of  whispering  gallery  for  increasing  the  intensity  of  the 
sounds  conveyed  to  the  ear. 

It  would  be  worthy  of  the  investigation  of  anatomists 
to  endeavor  to  ascertain  whether  the  skulls  of  celebrated 
musicians  have  a  greater  interval  between  the  outer  and 
inner  tables  than  the  skulls  of  those  who  are  deficient  in 
musical  ears. 

The  inference  to  be  drawn  from  these  facts  would  be 


26  UNDER   THE    TREES. 

that  birds,  whose  music  is  far  more  exquisite  than  that  of 
the  human  voice,  and  therefore  far  beyond  any  instrument 
of  human  contrivance,  have  joy  in  their  songs  even  more 
keen  and  perhaps  exalted  than  we  who  sit  under  the  trees, 
and  imagine  that  they  are  making  music  for  our  delight. 
We  have  read  of  a  canary-bird  that  sang  itself  to  death. 
Birds  often  die  of  apoplexy,  overtasking  their  energies,  or 
exposing  themselves  to  the  sun.  There  is  something  very 
like  human  nature  in  the  birds.  They  have  warm  and 
tender  affections.  Mrs.  Monteath's  poem,  in  which  she 
tells  of  the  death  of  two  doves  who  could  not  survive  the 
death  of  a  favorite  child,  is  one  of  the  most  touching  and 
beautiful  things  in  the  language.  A  solitary  gentleman, 
whose  principal  delight  it  had  been  to  observe  the  con- 
duct of  animals,  gives  the  following  account  of  the  affec- 
tion of  two  birds : 

"  They  were  a  species  of  paroquet  called  guinea  spar- 
rows, and  were  confined  in  a  square  cage.  The  cup  which 
contained  their  food  was  placed  in  the  bottom  of  the  cage. 
The  male  was  almost  continually  seated  on  the  same 
perch  with  the  female.  They  sat  close  together,  and 
viewed  each  other  from  time  to  time  with  evident  tender- 
ness. If  they  separated,  it  was  but  for  a  few  moments, 
for  they  hastened  to  return  and  place  themselves  near  to 
each  other.  They  often  appeared  to  engage  in  a  kind 
of  conversation,  which  they  continued  for  some  time,  and 
seemed  to  answer  each  other,  varying  their  sounds,  and  ele- 
vating and  lowering  their  notes.  Sometimes  they  seemed 
to  quarrel,  but  their  disagreements  were  of  momentary 
duration,  and  succeeded  by  additional  tenderness.  The 
happy  pair  thus  passed  four  years  in  a  climate  greatly 
different  from  that  in  which  they  had  before  lived.  At 
the  end  of  that  time  the  female  fell  into  a  state  of  Ian- 


THE    BIRDS.  27 

guor,  which  had  all  the  appearance  of  old  age.  Her  legs 
swelled,  and  it  was  no  longer  possible  that  she  could  go 
to  take  her  food.  But  the  male,  ever  attentive  and  alert 
in  whatever  concerned  her,  brought  it  in  his  bill  and 
emptied  it  into  hers.  He  was  in  this  manner  her  most 
vigilant  purveyor  during  the  space  of  four  months.  The 
infirmities  of  his  companion  increased  daily.  Becoming 
unable  at  last  to  sit  upon  the  perch,  she  remained  crouch- 
ed at  the  bottom  of  the  cage,  and  from  time  to  time  made 
a  few  ineffectual  efforts  to  regain  the  lowest  perch.  The 
male  seconded  her  feeble  efforts  with  all  his  power. 
Sometimes  he  seized  with  his  bill  the  upper  part  of  her 
wing,  by  way  of  drawing  her  to  him ;  sometimes  he  took 
her  by  the  bill,  and  endeavored  to  raise  her  up,  repeat- 
ing these  efforts  many  times.  His  motions,  his  gestures, 
his  continual  solicitude,  expressed  an  ardent  desire  to  aid 
the  weakness  of  his  companion,  and  to  alleviate  her  suf- 
ferings. But  the  spectacle  became  still  more  interesting, 
and  even  touching,  when  the  female  was  on  the  point  of 
expiring.  The  unhappy  male  went  ceaselessly  round  and 
round  his  mate,  and  redoubled  his  assiduities  and  tender 
cares.  He  tried  to  open  her  bill,  designing  to  give  her 
some  nourishment.  His  emotion  increased  every  instant. 
He  paced  and  repaced  the  cage  with  the  greatest  agita- 
tion, and  at  intervals  uttered  the  most  plaintive  cries. 
At  other  times  he  fixed  his  eyes  upon  her,  and  preserved 
the  most  sorrowful  silence.  It  was  impossible  to  mistake 
these  expressions  of  grief  and  despair.  His  faithful  com- 
panion at  last  expired.  From  that  time  he  himself  lan- 
guished, and  survived  her  but  a  few  months." 

We  know  less  of  the  habits  of  birds  than  of  almost 
any  other  animals,  because  they  are  generally  out  of 
sight,  though  very  near  us.     Only  one  man  ever  lived 


28  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

who  had  the  patience,  perseverance,  and  fortitude  to  study 
the  ways  of  the  birds.  He  has  left  a  name  that  will  al- 
ways be  associated  with  them,  and  with  this  region  of  the 
Hudson  River.  While  the  upper  part  of  the  island  of 
Manhattan  was  almost  a  wilderness,  he  came  to  the  spot 
which  is  now  known  by  his  name  on  Washington  Heights, 
and  there  cleared  away  some  of  the  forest,  and  built  a 
house  which  still  stands  in  the  midst  of  "  Audubon  Park." 
The  city  is  rapidly  crowding  in  and  around  it ;  but  the 
park  holds  its  own,  and  the  birds  hold  their  own  in  its 
venerable  trees  and  in  the  forest  cemetery  adjoining, 
where  lie  the  bones  of  John  James  Audubon.  He  was 
born  of  French  parents,  near  New  Orleans,  in  1780.  His 
father,  an  enthusiast  for  liberty,  was  with  Washington  at 
Valley  Forge ;  and  the  Audubon  family  still  possess  the 
portraits  of  both,  painted  in  the  camp  ;  that  of  Washing- 
ton being  the  first  ever  taken  of  him. 

"At  a  very  early  age,  Audubon  was  sent  to  France, 
and  educated  in  art  and  science  under  the  best  masters, 
among  whom  was  David.  The  love  of  birds,  which  be- 
came the  passion  of  his  life,  manifested  itself  in  infancy ; 
and  when  he  returned  from  France  he  betook  himself  to 
his  native  woods,  and  began  a  collection  of  drawings 
which  made  the  germ  of  '  The  Birds  of  America.'  His 
father  gave  him  a  plantation  on  the  rich  banks  of  the 
Schuylkill ;  and  luxury  and  fortune  offered  their  bland- 
ishments to  wean  him  from  his  love  of  adventure.  But 
his  heart  was  in  the  forest ;  and  in  18 10,  with  a  young 
wife,  an  infant  son,  and  his  unfailing  rifle,  he  embarked 
in  an  open  skiff  on  the  Ohio  to  find  a  new  home.  The 
mellow  lights  and  shadows  of  our  Indian  summer  had 
fallen  along  the  shores  of  that  queen  of  rivers.  At  long 
intervals  the  axe  of  the  squatter  was  beginning  to  disturb 


THE    BIRDS. 


29 


the  solemn  reign  of  nature.  He  settled  in  Kentucky, 
and  in  the  central  region  of  that  vast  valley  through,  which 
the  Mississippi  rolls  on  to  the  sea  he  pursued  his  studies 
and  roamings.  He  has  spent  more  years  in  the  forests 
than  most  men  live. 

"  Among  the  great  lakes  of  the  North,  he  saw  beyond 
the  reach  of  his  rifle  a  strange,  gigantic  bird  sweeping 
over  the  waters.  He  hunted  for  that  bird  ten  years,  and 
found  it  again  three  thousand  miles  from  the  spot  where 
he  first  saw  it.  Meanwhile  he  had  been  chilled  with 
eternal  frosts,  and  burned  with  perpetual  heats.  He  slept 
many  nights  across  branches  of  trees,  waked  by  panther 
screams ;  and  many  nights  he  passed  in  cane  -  brakes, 
where  he  did  not  dare  to  sleep.  He  saw  the  knife  of  the 
savage  whetted  for  him  ;  stepped  on  venomous  serpents  ; 
started  the  cougar  from  his  secret  lair ;  swam  swollen 
streams  with  his  gun,  ammunition,  drawings,  and  journals 
lashed  on  his  head ;  on  equatorial  rivers  alligators  stared 
at  him  as  he  landed ;  in  polar  regions  the  water  turned 
to  ice  as  it  fell  from  his  benumbed  limbs  when  he  struck 
the  bank  \  his  tongue  was  parched  with  thirst  on  deserts, 
and  he  laid  himself  down  famishing  to  wait,  like  Elijah, 
till  he  was  fed  by  the  birds  of  heaven.  This  was  his  his- 
tory during  the  life  of  a  generation.  And  yet,  through 
this  long  period  of  peril  and  suffering,  which  Caesar  would 
not  have  borne  to  have  heard  the  tramp  of  his  legions  in 
three  quarters  of  the  globe,  his  courage  never  failed,  his 
love  for  nature  never  cooled,  his  reverence  for  God — 
whose  illimitable  universe  he  was  exploring — deepened 
the  longer  he  gazed.  Nor  did  he  lose  a  throb  of  humane 
feeling  for  civilized  men,  from  whose  habitations  he  had 
exiled  himself." 

Such  was  the  man  whose  "Birds  of  America"  are  the 


30  UNDER   THE    TREES. 

memorials  of  his  enthusiasm  and  heroism.  His  wander- 
ings over,  he  came  here  to  the  banks  of  our  own  river, 
and  with  that  devoted  wife  who  started  with  him  on  his 
pilgrimages  he  spent  the  evening  of  his  eventful  life,  and 
died  in  185 1.  She  still  survives  him,  an  elegant,  accom- 
plished lady,  ninety  years  of  age,  more  active  in  all  the 
duties  and  enjoyments  of  life,  in  walks  of  charity  and  use- 
fulness, than  thousands  of  the  young  ladies  of  our  day. 
She  is  a  model  of  the  virtues  and  graces  that  adorn  her 
sex. 

When  a  copy  of  the  "  Birds  of  America  "  was  received 
by  the  Royal  Academy  of  Sciences  of  Paris,  Baron  Cu- 
vier  said,  "  It  is  the  most  magnificent  monument  which 
art  has  ever  raised  to  ornithology." 

Four  beautiful  brown  birds,  each  with  a  top-knot  on  his 
head,  are  sitting  on  a  tree  close  by  me,  and  flooding  the 
grove  with  their  rich  melodies.  I  do  not  know  them 
even  by  name.  But  if  I  had  "  Audubon's  Birds  of  Amer- 
ica," I  should  find  them  colored  to  the  life. 


V. 

INSECT  LIFE. 

You  can  not  live  under  the  trees  without  a  "  realizing 
sense  "  of  the  variety  and  wealth  of  life  besides  your  own. 
Just  now  an  eagle  came  to  us  from  the  rocky  palisades 
across  the  river,  or  perhaps  he  had  wandered  from  the 
Highlands  above  us — a  majestic  bird ;  he  soared  over 
and  near  us  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  took  his  way 
slowly  to  the  North,  leaving  our  birds  to  the  enjoyment 
of  the  quiet  he  had  disturbed.  And  he  was  no  more  to 
them  than  they  are  to  the  millions  of  insects  that  swarm 
in  the  leaves,  and  the  air,  and  the  earth  we  tread.     For 

"As  naturalists  observe,  a  flea 
Has  smaller  fleas  on  him  that  prey, 
And  these  have  smaller  still  to  bite  'em, 
And  so  proceed  ad  infinitum." 

The  flight  and  fright  of  the  birds  when  the  eagle  comes 
near,  and  the  gathering  of  the  chickens  under  the  moth- 
er-hen when  the  hawk  appears,  remind  us  of  the  fact  that 
multitudes  of  the  tribes  of  animals  live  on  one  another, 
the  work  of  destruction  going  on  so  constantly  that  the 
world  would  be  depopulated  if  the  arrangements  of  Nat- 
ure for  re-supply  were  not  ample  to  meet  all  the  losses. 
The  fish  multiply  rapidly  in  the  little  pond  at  the  foot  of 
the  lawn,  yet  the  little  ones  are  devoured  by  the  larger, 
and  millions  of  eggs  are  eaten  up  almost  as  soon  as  they 
are  laid.     The  birds  that  farmers  and  gardeners  make 


32  UNDER   THE    TREES. 

war  upon,  and  would  gladly  exterminate  because  they  eat 
a  share  of  the  fruit,  are  the  fell  destroyers  of  myriads  of 
insects  and  worms  that  would  doubtless  be  far  more  de- 
structive of  the  good  things  we  wish  to  preserve  for  our 
own  use.  Every  thing  has  its  use.  Some  things,  if  they 
have  any  good  in  them,  have  a  very  poor  way  of  showing 
it.  What  these  rose-bugs  are  made  for,  at  least  what  use- 
ful purpose  they  answer,  is  far  beyond  me  to  imagine. 
They  come  in  troops,  a  flying  artillery,  charge  upon  one 
bed  of  roses,  and,  like  the  locusts  of  Egypt,  devastate  the 
whole,  and  then  pass  on  to  another.  Beauty  perishes  be- 
fore them.  The  flower  of  the  field,  the  pride  of  the  gar- 
den, the  hopes  of  bouquets  to  come,  fade  as  they  approach. 
It  requires  a  large  amount  of  perseverance  to  destroy 
them,  and  more  patience  to  submit  to  their  ravages. 

What  on  earth,  or  rather  under  the  earth,  does  the 
ground-mole  live  for  ?  Blind  to  all  the  utilities  of  walks 
or  beds,  he  pursues  his  subterranean  route  of  ruin,  so  si- 
lently, so  obscurely,  so  rapidly,  that  the  work  of  destruc- 
tion is  done  before  the  presence  of  the  enemy  is  suspect- 
ed. "  Wherefore  do  the  wicked  live  ?"  is  a  question  ask- 
ed of  old ;  and  we  may  inquire,  and  in  vain,  why  moles 
and  rose-bugs,  to  say  nothing  of  curculio,  the  weevil,  the 
musquito,  have  their  existence  in  such  a  beautiful  world 
as  this  ?  Are  they  part  of  the  curse  under  which  creation 
groans,  waiting  to  be  delivered  ?  And  will  there  be  any 
musquitoes  in  the  millennium  ?  For  however  we  may  as- 
sure ourselves  that  every  thing  is  made  for  some  useful 
purpose,  and  therefore  ought  to  be  regarded  with  a  sort 
of  complacency,  even  when  we  can  see  no  good  of  it  now, 
there  is  no  one  who  does  not  wish  for  that  "good  time 
coming,"  when  not  only  the  lion  and  the  lamb  will  lie 
down  together,  but  musquitoes  will  cease  to  bite.     Hap- 


INSECT    LIFE.  33 

pily  we  are  free  from  this  curse  here,  if  it  be  one ;  but  I 
speak  with  a  deep  sense  of  the  evil,  from  the  memory  of 
summers  spent  in  a  place  where  musquitoes  most  do  con- 
gregate ;  where  living  is  cheap,  but  the  musquitoes  sent  in 
their  bills,  so  many  and  so  long  that  we  were  glad  to  es- 
cape, with  the  loss  of  some  blood,  to  a  land  of  pure  de- 
light, where  these  disturbers  do  not  bite  nor  give  us  songs 
in  the  night.  Yet  they  are  only  the  small  annoyances  of 
life.  They  are  tests  and  trials  of  one's  patience.  If 
properly  borne,  they  are  as  good  for  the  temper  as  Span- 
ish flies  for  a  blister.  Learning  to  bear  the  ills  they 
bring,  we  may  be  fitted  to  bear  the  many  greater  ills  that 
flesh  is  heir  to,  and  so  musquitoes  may  prove  to  be  a 
blessing,  not  indeed  in  disguise,  but  a  friend  instead  of  a 
foe. 

We  have  been  more  interested  in  the  ant  race  than  in 
any  other  of  the  insect  tribes  that  abound.  It  is  even 
more  difficult  to  study  them  than  Audubon  found  it  to 
learn  the  habits  of  birds.  They  have  the  family  and  com- 
munity system  with  a  general  government,  more  thorough- 
ly established  than  any  other  tribe  except  the  bees,  whom 
they  resemble  in  many  of  their  habits.  The  system  of 
slavery  prevails  among  them,  under  some  mild  and  whole- 
some laws  that  might  with  advantage  be  imitated  by  the 
human  race  where  that  unhappy  system  prevails.  The 
workers  or  servants  perform  all  the  hard  service  of  the 
family,  while  the  winged  heads  of  the  household  live  in 
idleness  quite  unworthy  of  the  name  that  has  been  a  syn- 
onym in  all  ages  for  industry.  Indeed  these  idle  ants 
are  often  disposed  to  leave  the  premises,  but  the  workers 
who  have  no  wings  keep  watch  of  them,  and  bring  them 
back  to  their  duty  of  presiding  over  the  establishment. 
Curiously  wrought  beneath  the  surface  of  the  earth  is  the 

C 


34  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

house  in  which  these  little  creatures  live,  with  galleries 
connecting  various  apartments,  stored  with  food  collected 
by  the  servant  class,  and  fitted  to  survive  the  ruin  that 
often  overtakes  the  little  mound  or  portico  on  the  surface 
that  is  only  an  entrance  to  the  palace  below.  Here  they 
have  their  "insect  life,"  perhaps  more  perfectly  domes- 
ticated than  any  other  of  the  many  families  into  which 
the  animal  creation  is  subdivided.  They  have  a  rapid 
mode  of  exchanging  "  ideas,"  if  that  is  the  word  by  which 
to  designate  their  mental  operations ;  and  the  evidences 
of  their  capacity  to  adapt  means  to  ends  is  far  ahead  of 
many  more  exalted  races.  Their  sense  of  smell  is  very 
acute,  and  by  it  they  are  guided  to  distant  places  for 
food,  and  led  back  on  the  same  trail  to  the  little  home 
they  are  bound  to  supply.  If  each  ant  in  these  myriads 
have  his  own  house  to  care  for,  and  the  family  relation  is 
preserved,  as  it  is  among  birds,  the  organization  must  be 
very  perfect  to  enable  them  to  distinguish  each  other  and 
their  respective  dwellings.  The  discipline  is  perfect,  un- 
der a  monarchical  form  of  government,  administered  by 
a  queen,  whom  the  workers  carry  on  their  shoulders  from 
room  to  room,  and  to  whom  they  yield  the  most  profound 
respect  and  obedience. 

These  are  the  lowest  forms  of  life  that  we  can  study 
with  much  success,  without  some  aid  to  the  naked  eye. 
But  take  the  microscope,  and  worlds  of  new  life  and 
beauty  are  unfolded  within  and  beneath  the  humblest  in- 
sect that  flies  or  creeps.  The  atmosphere  swarms  with 
animals  where  we  do  not  suspect  it ;  and  huge  monsters 
play  in  the  crystal  water.  The  wisest  of  men  has  said, 
"  Go  to  the  ant,  thou  sluggard,  consider  her  ways  and  be 
wise  ;"  and  even  if  I  were  lazier  to-day  than  usual — for  it 
is  the  hottest  day  in  many  weeks  past — I  would  not  have 


INSECT   LIFE.  35 

far  to  go  to  get  the  lesson  of  wisdom  which  Solomon  rec- 
ommended ;  for  as  I  was  coming  out  to  this  rude  writ- 
ing-chair under  the  trees,  I  passed  and  paused  to  admire 
a  huge  hillock,  a  dwelling-place  for  ants,  who  were  run- 
ning in  and  out,  a  busy  race,  within  whose  city  no  man's 
eye  has  seen,  though  in  all  ages  their  habits  have  been 
studied  by  thoughtful  men.  These  ants  are  not  so  great 
as  those  mentioned  by  Herodotus  and  Pliny,  which  were 
"not  so  large  as  a  dog,  but  bigger  than  a  fox."  Some 
other  early  writers  speak  of  ants  that  rival  the  wolf  in 
size,  the  dog  in  shape,  the  lion  in  its  feet,  the  leopard  in 
its  skin,  and  from  whose  fury  the  Indian  has  to  fly  on  the 
back  of  a  camel.     That  must  be  an  exaggeration. 

Within  this  heap  of  sand  is  a  miniature  house  of  many 
mansions  or  apartments:  yes,  many  houses,  a  village  with 
streets  and  galleries,  which  the  workers  of  these  tribes 
have  toilfully  and  skillfully  excavated  with  their  little 
mouths.  They  have  made  mortar  by  moistening  clay 
with  rain  drops,  they  have  used  grass  covered  with  this 
paste  for  columns  and  arches  and  roofing.  Others  pene- 
trate a  tree  and  there  hew  out  a  home,  with  walls  as  thin 
as  paper,  separating  the  residences  of  the  several  inhab- 
itants. They  paint  these  walls  black  sometimes ;  others 
leave  them  the  color  of  the  wood.  Froebel,  in  his  "  Trav- 
els in  Central  America,"  tells  of  a  species  of  ants  in  New 
Mexico  who  construct  their  nests  exclusively  of  small 
stones  of  one  kind,  chosen  by  the  insects  from  the  sand 
of  the  steppes  and  deserts ;  in  one  part  these  heaps  were 
formed  of  small  fragments  of  crystallized  feldspars  ;  and 
in  another  imperfect  crystals  of  red  transparent  garnet 
were  the  materials  of  which  the  ant-hills  were  built,  and 
any  quantity  of  them  might  there  be  obtained. 

In  Southern  Africa  the  ants  raise  solid  nests  of  clay, 


36  UNDER    THE   TREES. 

shaped  like  a  baker's  oven.  The  Caffres,  when  first  per- 
mitted to  settle  here,  converted  these  nests  into  ovens. 
Having  expelled  the  ants  by  smoke,  they  scooped  out  the 
nests,  leaving  the  crust  a  few  inches  thick,  and  then  used 
them  for  baking  their  loaves. 

"Another  African  species  is  described  by  the  Rev. 
Lansdown  Guilding  as  'parasol  ants.'  *  In  Trinidad/  he 
says,  'we  may  see  marching  legions  of  these  creatures 
with  leaves  elevated  over  their  heads,  like  a  London  crowd 
on  a  rainy  day  following  the  Lord  Mayor's  show  with  in- 
numerable umbrellas ;  or,  rather,  as  they  observe  the  or- 
der and  decorum  which  the  crowd  despise,  they  represent, 
on  a  Liliputian  scale,  with  their  leafy  screens,  the  ene- 
mies of  Macbeth  descending  from  '  Birnam  Wood  to  Dun- 
sinane.'  These  leaves  are,  however,  probably  collected 
to  cover  their  nests  rather  than  to  'shadow  the  number 
of  their  host.' 

"  Madame  Meriam  describes  the  '  visitation  ants '  of 
Surinam,  which  appear  only  at  certain  seasons,  or  about 
once  in  two  or  three  years.  These  multitudes  receive  a 
cheerful  welcome  from  the  natives,  who  throw  open  the 
doors  of  their  houses,  when  the  ants  enter,  traverse  every 
part  of  their  dwellings,  and,  after  destroying  all  the  vermin 
secreted  therein,  take  their  departure. 

"  Dr.  Poeppig  described  the  ants  of  Peru  as  most  nu- 
merous in  the  Lower  Andes :  they  are  from  an  inch  in 
size,  and  of  all  colors  between  yellow  and  black.  In  the 
huts  only  are  seven  different  species,  and  in  the  woods 
of  Pampayaes  six-and-twenty  species.  One  of  the  very 
useful  kinds,  which  does  not  attack  man  unless  provoked, 
is  the  Peruvian  wandering  ant,  which  comes  in  endless 
swarms  from  the  wilderness,  where  it  again  vanishes ;  it 
is  not  unwelcome,  because  it  does  no  injury  to  the  plan- 


INSECT   LIFE. 


37 


tations,  but  destroys  innumerable  pernicious  insects  of 
other  kinds,  and  even  amphibious  animals  and  small 
quadrupeds.  '  Of  these  ants,'  says  Dr.  Poeppig,  '  the 
broad  columns  go  forward,  disregarding  every  obstacle, 
and  millions  march  close  together  in  a  swarm  that  takes 
hours  in  passing ;  while  on  both  sides  the  warriors,  dis- 
tinguished by  their  size  and  color,  move  busily  backward 
and  forward,  ready  for  defense,  and  likewise  employed  in 
looking  for  and  attacking  animals  which  are  so  unfortu- 
nate as  to  be  unable  to  escape,  either  by  force  or  by  rapid 
flight.  If  they  approach  a  house,  the  owner  readily  opens 
every  part,  and  goes  away ;  and  all  noxious  vermin  that 
may  have  taken  up  their  abode  in  the  roof  of  palm-leaves, 
the  insects  and  larvae,  are  destroyed,  or  compelled  to  seek 
safety  in  flight.  The  most  secret  recesses  of  the  huts  do 
not  escape  their  search,  and  the  animal  that  waits  for 
their  arrival  is  infallibly  lost.  They  even,  as  the  natives 
affirm,  overpower  large  snakes,  for  the  warriors  form  a 
circle  round  the  reptile  while  basking  in  the  sun.  On 
perceiving  its  enemies,  it  endeavors  to  escape,  but  in  vain ; 
for  six  or  more  of  them  have  fixed  themselves  upon  it, 
and,  while  the  tortured  animal  endeavors  to  relieve  itself 
by  a  simple  turn,  the  number  of  its  foes  is  increased  a 
hundredfold.  Thousands  of  the  smaller  ants  from  the 
main  column  hasten  up,  and,  in  spite  of  the  writhings  of 
the  snake,  wound  it  in  innumerable  places,  and  in  a  few 
hours  nothing  remains  of  it  but  a  clean  skeleton." 

But  I  am  much  more  interested  in  the  ants  that  live 
under  the  trees  with  me  than  in  their  cousins  of  Peru  or 
Trinidad.  Here  they  are  a  very  orderly  community,  with 
laws  and  government,  perhaps,  in  common  with  all  the 
tribes  of  ants  the  world  over.  I  have  never  seen  them 
milking  the  aphides,  or  slugs,  that  infest  the  leaves  of 


38  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

trees,  but  Linnseus  says  they  do.  I  have  seen  them  often 
carrying  their  food  into  their  granaries,  though  some 
learned  ant-writers  affirm  that  they  do  not  lay  up  stores 
for  the  winter,  but  lie  dormant  in  cold  weather.  That 
they  have  foresight  enough  to  provide  beforehand  food 
for  rainy  days  when  they  can  not  work  is  very  plain  from 
what  we  see  them  doing  daily. 

The  accounts  of  the  wars  and  expeditions  of  ants  read 
like  pages  of  man's  history.  "  Ants  of  different  species 
assail  one  another  in  their  foraging  excursions ;  and 
pitched  battles  are  fought  between  the  colonist  ants. 
Huber  describes  thousands  of  combatants  thus  engaged, 
with  great  carnage ;  and  a  naturalist  has  seen  fifty  wood 
ants  fighting  within  a  few  inches'  area  of  what  were  sup- 
posed to  be  the  boundaries  of  their  several  territories. 
Their  bite  is  so  sharp,  and  the  acrid  juice  which  they 
infuse  is  so  deleterious,  that  many  are  thus  disabled  or 
killed  outright.  Huber  also  describes  the  exploits  of  the 
warrior  ants,  which  almost  exceed  belief;  but  in  1832 
such  accounts  were  verified  in  the  Black  Forest  and  in 
Switzerland,  with  respect  to  the  '  Amazon  ant,'  and  on  the 
Rhine  as  to  the  'sanguinary  ant'  Both  these  species 
make  war  on  the  ants  of  other  species,  particularly  the 
'  dusky  ant,'  not  for  mere  fighting,  but  to  make  slaves  of 
the  vanquished,  to  do  the  drudgery  of  the  conquerors'  ant- 
home.  They  are  as  cunning  as  diplomatists  :  they  do 
not  capture  the  adult  ants,  and  carry  them  into  slavery, 
but  make  booty  of  their  eggs  and  cocoons,  which,  after 
the  contest  is  decided — and  the  warriors  are  always  con- 
querors— are  carried  off  to  the  Amazonian  citadel,  and 
being  hatched  there,  the  poor  slaves  are  probably  not 
aware  that  it  is  not  their  native  colony.  Huber  testifies 
to  such  expeditions  for  capturing  slaves  ;  and  a  living 


INSECT    LIFE. 


39 


naturalist  witnessed,  in  a  great  number  of  instances,  the 
slaves  at  work  for  the  victorious  captors." 

It  fills  me  with  wonder  to  think  that  under  the  surface 
of  the  earth  we  tread  there  is  a  miniature  world  of  life 
and  motion,  so  like  our  Morld,  where  there  is  no  speech 
nor  language  that  we  can  understand,  but  where  there  is 
certainly  thought  and  purpose,  the  adaptation  of  means 
to  ends,  and  a  display  of  skill  that  no  human  ingenuity 
can  approach. 

Yesterday  I  was  studying  the  far-down  depths  of  ani- 
mal life  with  the  aid  of  a  microscope,  that  brought  into 
view  the  active  operations  of  a  living  creature  in  the  sap 
of  a  bit  of  grass.  Its  motions  as  it  turned  a  wheel  to 
draw  up  its  food  were  so  natural,  it  was  hard  to  believe 
we  must  have  a  glass  to  magnify  the  object  six  hundred 
times  to  bring  this  infinitesimal  being  within  the  reach 
of  mortal  eye.  And  so  it  is  with  the  whole  world  below 
us.  There  is  a  distance  down  as  far  and  as  densely  peo- 
pled with  sentient  inhabitants  as  there  is  above  us.  In- 
deed, the  angels  are  not  farther  removed  from  man  than 
this  animalcule,  and,  physically  considered,  they  are  per- 
haps nearer.  Such  lessons  we  learn  from  ant-hills  :  at 
least  we  began  with  one  of  them,  and  have  ended  with 
the  angels. 


VI. 

SUNSHINE. 

The  trees  clap  their  hands  to-day.  The  rocks  and 
hills,  the  green  grass  in  the  meadows  and  the  silent  river, 
are  all  vocal  and  musical  with  praise.  It  is  as  if  the 
spring-time  had  suddenly  leaped  out  of  the  bosom  of 
winter,  in  its  beauty  of  leaves  and  flowers,  with  songs  of 
birds  and  glad  warmth  of  summer. 

There  is  great  power  in  sunshine.  It  is  life  for  plants 
and  life  for  animals.  There  are  some  of  both,  doubtless, 
who  can  live  in  the  dark,  but  nature  loves  light.  Put  a 
plant  in  a  dark  room,  and  then  admit  a  single  beam  of 
light  into  it,  and  the  plant  will  grow  toward  it,  twisting  it- 
self out  of  shape  for  the  sake  of  getting  into  the  little 
gleam  of  sunshine.  Some  of  these  apple-trees  are  one- 
sided because  the  forest  trees  have  overshadowed  them, 
and,  instead  of  growing  up  and  extending  their  branches 
symmetrically  as  they  should,  they  creep  out  laterally  to 
get  into  the  sun.  The  question  often  comes  up  for  con- 
sideration, Shall  we  cut  down  the  trees  to  let  in  the  sun,  or 
keep  the  trees  and  live  in  the  shade  ?  We  compromise  the 
matter,  and  have  a  fair  proportion  of  both,  just  like  life 
itself.  And  there  is  this  analogy  too,  that  you  may  have 
whichever  you  choose  to  make  for  yourself.  Plant  trees 
and  you  have  shade.  Cut  them  down  and  the  sun  will 
come  in.  It  is  just  as  easy,  and  indeed  much  easier  to 
regulate  this  matter  in  the  house  and  in  the  heart.     It 


SUNSHINE. 


41 


may  not  be  well  for  us  to  have  sunshine  always.  It  is 
wisely  arranged  that  night  follows  the  day  in  regular  suc- 
cession. It  would  be  tedious  to  have  daylight  always. 
Providence  is  very  kind  in  ordering  it,  that  this  change 
shall  give  us  just  what  we  need  for  rest  and  labor.  So 
all  things  are  adapted  to  each  other,  just  as  this  green 
of  the  trees  and  grass  is  a  color  that  suits  the  eye  better 
than  any  other :  it  was  made  for  the  eye,  or  the  eye  was 
made  for  the  color,  it  is  no  matter  which.  The  change 
from  sunlight  to  darkness  is  a  type  of  the  change  that 
most  of  us  find  in  our  daily  experience  of  life.  Few  if 
any  are  always  in  the  light.  The  days  of  darkness  are 
many.  It  is  good  for  us,  doubtless,  that  the  sun  is  not 
always  shining. 

But  too  much  shade  sours  and  kills  us.  There  is  far 
more  of  this  in  the  world  than  there  ought  to  be.  It  is 
very  much  as  one  pleases,  whether  he  will  be  gloomy  or 
glad.  One  man  will  make  perpetual  sunshine  wherever 
he  goes  or  stays.  Another  will  carry  a  pall  with  him,  and 
spread  it  over  the  faces  and  spirits  of  every  company 
he  enters.  And  this  is  more  true  of  the  family  than  of 
society. 

There  is  my  old  friend  Longface.  He  is  never  pleased 
with  any  thing  that  any  body  says  or  does,  or  if  he  is 
pleased,  he  has  a  way  of  hiding  his  pleasure  that  makes 
his  family  feel  that  he  is  out  of  humor  all  the  time.  The 
breakfast  is  late,  and  it  does  not  suit  him  when  it  is  ready. 
He  meets  his  children  without  a  smile  or  a  word  of  morn- 
ing welcome,  and  leaves  them  to  go  to  his  business  as 
if  he  had  no  interest  in  what  was  to  be  their  business 
through  the  day.  Longface  has  no  small  change  to  pass 
among  his  acquaintances  in  the  street  or  in  the  market. 
A  stranger  would  suppose  there  had  been  a  death  in  his 


42  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

family,  or  his  business  matters  were  in  disorder,  he  looks 
so  glum  when  all  around  him  is  so  cheery.  Longface 
seldom  speaks  but  to  grumble.  He  finds  faults  where 
there  are  none,  and  speaks  of  faults  that  do  really  exist, 
when  other  people  would  say  nothing  of  them.  For  it  is 
making  matters  worse  to  be  talking  about  troubles,  unless 
talking  will  cure  or  help  them.  But  Longface  never  sees 
a  bright  side  to  any  thing,  because  he  is  in  the  shade,  and 
no  sun  shines  on  any  thing  he  sees.  If  there  is  a  bright 
side,  he  turns  away  from  it  as  if  the  sun  hurt  his  eyes. 
It  is  hard  to  say  whether  Longface  have  any  sunshine  in 
his  heart  or  not ;  if  he  have,  it  never  comes  to  the  surface, 
and  his  wife  and  children,  who  ought  to  feel  it  and  see  it, 
have  never  had  a  glimpse  of  it  playing  around  them. 
They  do  not  know  any  reason  why  he  should  not  be  a 
happy  man;  but  if  he  is  happy,  he  takes  a  droll  way  to 
show  it,  or,  rather,  he  never  shows  it. 

Of  quite  another  pattern  is  my  neighbor  Blithe.  He 
rises  with  the  lark,  and  has  a  heart  as  full  of  praise.  All 
things  work  for  good  with  him,  and  his  principle  is  to 
make  the  best  of  every  thing.  In  the  house,  at  the  table, 
and  in  the  evening  circle,  he  is  always  cheerful,  and  his 
sunny  smile  and  pleasant  words  make  good  cheer  contin- 
ually. He  thinks  no  ill  of  any  one,  or,  if  he  do  think  so, 
he  keeps  it  to  himself.  Every  one  loves  Blithe,  and  a 
few  such  men  would  make  the  neighborhood  a  joy  in  all 
this  part  of  the  earth.  I  wish  he  would  go  about  as  a 
sort  of  missionary,  not  to  tell  people  any  thing,  but  to 
show  them  how  to  make  the  world  happier  and  better  by 
the  power  of  their  own  cheerful  living.  In  the  best  of 
times,  and  under  the  most  favorable  circumstances,  we 
shall  have  clouds  and  storms,  and  cold,  damp  northeast 
winds  enough  in  this  world,  without  any  artificial  means 


SUNSHINE. 


43 


to  make  uncomfortable  weather.  And  there  is  plenty  of 
trouble,  vexation,  disappointment,  and  loss  to  try  the  faith 
and  patience  of  Job,  or  any  other  man  of  patfence,  with- 
out our  adding  to  the  stock  by  our  own  sulks  and  selfish- 
ness. When  Lady  Raffles,  in  India,  was  smitten  by  the 
death  of  a  favorite  child,  she  shut  herself  up  in  a  dark 
room  and  refused  to  be  comforted.  A  native  servant 
woman  rebuked  her  ingratitude  and  repining,  and  said, 
"You  have  been  here  many  days  shut  up  in  the  dark — 
for  shame !— leave  off  weeping,  and  let  me  open  a  win- 
dow." That  was  good  counsel.  Open  the  window.  Let 
in  the  sunshine.  It  is  good  for  plants  and  good  for  peo- 
ple ;  good  for  them  in  health  and  sickness,  in  sorrow  and 
joy.  Children  ought  to  be  in  sunlight  every  day.  The 
nursery  should  be  the  sunniest  room  in  the  house.  It  is 
not  healthful  to  keep  the  little  ones  in  a  room  where  the 
sun  does  not  shine  directly.  I  love  to  sit  under  these 
trees  and  write  while  the  warm  sun  is  above  them  and 
me,  and  its  beams  are  falling  and  lying  all  around  in  a 
wealth  of  glory.     I  know  my  favorite  poet  has  said, 

"  The  sun  is  but  a  spark  of  fire, 
A  transient  meteor  in  the  sky." 

But  he  is  God's  great  dispenser  of  light  and  warmth ;  a 
giver  of  good  to  every  son  and  daughter  of  man  ;  a  fount- 
ain of  blessing  to  every  leaf  and  flower  and  herb,  the 
source  of  life  to  animated  nature;  and  I  wonder  not  that 
Persian  pagans  paid  divine  honors  to  him  who  is  the 
brightest  manifestation  to  their  eyes  of  the  Infinite  God. 


VII. 

SHOWERS. 

Such  a  day  as  this  for  sunshine  and  showers  we  do 
not  remember,  and  our  out-of-door  habits  make  us  mindful 
of  remarkable  days.  We  have  had  so  much  rain  lately 
that  the  seeds,  rotting  in  the  ground,  have  failed  to  come 
up  as  they  were  expected.  And  we  could  readily  have 
dispensed  with  these  showers  to-day.  Indeed,  according 
to  our  way  of  thinking,  this  weather  was  not  wanted  at 
all ;  but  we  have  long  since  learned  that  the  Lord  of  the 
Harvest  has  a  much  better  idea  of  what  is  best  for  the 
crops  and  the  people  than  we  have,  and  so  we  trust  Him 
to  take  care  of  the  weather.  We  have  never  yet  attained 
to  the  contentment  of  the  shepherd  who  said  the  weather 
would  be  just  such  as  pleased  him,  because  whatever 
pleased  the  Lord  would  please  him.  But  we  have  found 
that  there  is  no  good  in  fretting  about  weather  or  any 
thing  else.  It  will  neither  rain  nor  shine  more  or  less 
for  any  thing  we  can  say  or  do.  Fretting  only  wears  out 
the  soul  and  body  both,  while  the  seasons  come  and  go 
without  regard  to  our  impatience. 

If  we  had  no  rain  till  all  were  agreed  to  have  it,  the 
ground  would  go  dry.  Even  a  drought  would  not  make 
the  people  unanimous  as  to  time  or  quantity.  When  his 
congregation  wanted  Pastor  Jones  to  pray  for  rain,  he 
told  them  he  could  have  it  whenever  they  were  agreed 
as   to  the  time.     One  farmer  had  his  hay  out,  and  it 


SHOWERS. 


45 


would  be  bad  for  him  if  it  rained  to-morrow ;  and  anoth- 
er would  be  very  much  put  out  by  wet  weather  the  next 
day ;  and  so  it  went  on,  until  it  was  found  that  unanimity 
was  out  of  the  question. 

A  traveling  preacher  on  his  journey  called  at  a  cottage 
where  the  good  woman  entertained  him  with  dinner ;  and 
when  he  asked  a  blessing,  she  inquired  if  he  were  a  min- 
ister. He  told  her  he  was,  and  a  Methodist.  She  said 
her  little  garden  was  nearly  perishing  for  want  of  rain, 
and  she  wished  he  would  pray  for  it.  He  did  so,  and 
went  his  way.  Soon  the  heavens  gathered  blackness, 
and  a  terrific  shower  came  down,  washing  her  garden  so 
badly  that  she  suffered  more  by  the  freshet  than  the 
drought.  "  There,"  she  said,  "  that's  just  like  those  Meth- 
odists :  they  never  can  do  any  thing  in  moderation." 
We  must  learn  to  take  things  as  they  come.  Our  way  is 
not  always  the  best  way,  and  never  is  unless  it  is  God's 
way  also ;  and  we  may  be  very  sure  when  we  have  a  plan 
or  purpose  or  an  expectation  that  fails,  there  is  some  wise 
and  good  end  to  be  answered,  for  the  Lord  makes  no 
mistakes,  and  his  love  never  fails.  It  seems  to  me  that 
my  Lima  beans  are  to  be  a  total  failure,  they  are  so  slow 
in  coming ;  and  when  I  have  tried  to  look  into  the  root 
of  the  difficulty  by  disinterring  some  of  the  seed  long 
buried,  it  proves  to  be  rotting  instead  of  germinating. 
But  there  is  yet  time  to  plant  again ;  and  I  reckon  that 
the  future  of  the  season  will  be  so  favorable  to  the  growth 
of  the  garden  that  we  shall  have  a  fair  supply.  Even  if 
we  do  not,  there  will  be  something  else  abundant. 

For  after  these  showers  there  will  be  warm,  sunny  days, 
in  which  vegetation  will  rush  on  apace.  Rainy  days  are 
reckoned  dark,  sad  days,  and  they  are  apt  emblems  of 
the  sorrows  we  suffer,  emblems  in  more  ways  than  one. 


46  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

The  skies  weep,  and  so  do  we.  But  weeping  endures  for 
a  night,  and  joy  comes  in  the  morning.  These  showers 
are  good  for  the  earth,  and  our  tears  are  good  for  the 
heart.  Out  of  the  depths  of  sorrow  spring  up  the  fruits 
of  holy  peace  and  solid  comfort,  such  as  they  never  know 
who  have  not  mourned.  Some  good  people — real  Chris- 
tians, no  doubt — have  long  spells  of  bad  weather,  in  which 
they  suffer  deep  spiritual  depression,  losing  all  enjoyment 
in  divine  things,  and  seem  to  be  shut  out  from  the  sun- 
shine of  their  Father's  face.  There  is  very  little  of  this 
experience  on  record  in  the  Bible.  David  was  often  in 
deep  water,  all  the  waves  and  billows  went  over  him. 
But  the  cause  was  some  obvious  sin  into  which  he  had 
fallen.  Modern  saints  are  often  under  a  cloud,  and  sin 
probably  makes  the  cloud ;  but  the  sin  is  so  concealed 
even  from  themselves  that  they  do  not  know  what  it  is. 
Dyspepsia  is  a  great  foe  to  grace.  It  darkens  the  sky 
and  shakes  the  hope  of  many  Christians,  sometimes  sinks 
them  into  despair.  They  think  the  trouble  is  in  their 
hearts,  when  it  is  in  their  stomachs.  It  was  always  strange 
to  me  that  David  Brainerd  was  so  miserable,  so  long  and 
often.  Dr.  Payson  had  awful  times  of  spiritual  darkness 
and  distress.  The  sweet  poet  Cowper  was  a  wretched 
victim  of  religious  melancholy ;  and  after  one  of  his  worst 
attacks,  he  wrote — 

"  Ye  fearful  saints,  fresh  courage  take ; 
The  clouds  ye  so  much  dread 
Are  big  with  mercy  and  will  break 
In  blessings  on  your  head." 

Perhaps  the  causes  were  more  physical  than  moral.  God 
never  sends  his  children  into  the  dark.  They  go  there, 
and  weep  and  fast  and  pray ;  but  He  would  have  them  in 
the  light  of  his  countenance,  rejoicing  always  before  him. 


SHOWERS.  47 

The  sorrows  of  the  good  are  the  same  that  other  men 
have.  Sickness,  death,  care,  disappointment,  break  in  on 
the  enjoyment  of  the  saint,  and  he  sils  under  a  cloud,  and 
the  storm  beats  on  him,  and  the  clouds  return  after  the 
rain,  as  they  have  done  all  this  day.  One  trouble  follows 
on  the  heels  of  another.  But  the  sun  is  shining  behind 
the  cloud ;  there  is  a  "  silver  lining "  to  it,  and  by-and- 
by  the  light  will  burst  out  in  beauty  and  great  glory,  and 
the  afflicted  one  will  rejoice  that  he  has  been  afflicted. 

And  so  we  will  wait  patiently  till  this  wet  weather 
passes  by.  It  will  be  all  right  in  a  day  or  two,  and  very 
likely  we  shall  be  wise  enough  to  see  that  it  is  better  so 
than  otherwise. 


VIII. 

BUGS. 

Walking  under  the  trees,  I  found  in  the  path  a  robin 
partially  under  the  ground.  He  had  not  been  drawn  into 
a  hole,  but  the  earth  had  been  removed  from  underneath 
him,  and  his  head  and  wings  and  tail  were  resting  on  the 
walk.  I  examined  him,  and  finding  him  dead,  and  evi- 
dently in  the  hands  of  some  animal  who  designed  to  make 
use  of  him,  I  left  him.  Returning  to  the  same  spot  an 
hour  or  two  after,  I  found  him  drawn  into  a  hole,  head 
first,  and  it  required  some  little  effort  to  extricate  him. 
Throwing  him  aside,  I  left  him  for  the  day,  and  toward 
night  he  was  drawn  in  again,  and  was  now  so  nearly  bur- 
ied that  only  part  of  his  tail  was  above  ground.  Once 
more  I  rescued  him  from  the  grave,  and  leaving  him  in 
the  walk,  went  away.  Again  he  was  carried  to  the  hole, 
and  I  found  him  with  the  tips  of  his  wings  and  his  tail 
protruding,  and  these  were  quivering,  as  the  body  was  be- 
ing drawn  with  considerable  force  into  the  earth.  The 
gardener  was  sure  it  was  a  snake  carrying  the  bird  under 
for  more  convenient  mastication  ;  but  when  we  struck 
with  the  spade  below  so  as  to  cut  him  in  two,  we  found 
nothing.  Once  more  we  made  the  ground  smooth  and 
hard,  and  throwing  the  bird  aside,  left  it.  The  next  morn- 
ing it  was  again  going  under.  I  drew  it  out  suddenly, 
and  found  the  beast.  It  was  a  bug,  about  an  inch  long, 
and  slender,  yellow,  with  black  stripes.     His  strength  was 


BUGS. 


49 


amazing,  when  his  size  was  considered  ;  and  as  he  seemed 
to  be  the  only  engineer  and  power  employed  in  moving 
the  bird,  which  was  twenty  or  thirty  times  as  large  as  he, 
and  was  drawn  by  it  into  a  hole  requiring  great  extra 
force,  besides  what  was  necessary  to  overcome  the  weight, 
it  appeared  to  me  almost  incredible  that  he  could  do  it. 
Some  friends  wishing  the  beetle  to  be  preserved  as  a  cu- 
rious specimen  in  natural  history,  I  performed  for  the  first 
time  that  barbarous  operation  so  common  with  natural- 
ists :  I  put  a  pin  through  him,  and  fastened  him  to  a 
board  in  the  barn,  designing  to  present  him  to  some  mu- 
seum with  a  statement  of  his  exploits.  I  left  him  there 
to  his  own  reflections,  and  the  next  morning,  to  my  sur- 
prise, as  Samson  walked  off  with  the  gates  of  Gaza,  even 
so  had  this  beetle  taken  himself  off,  not  with  the  board, 
but  with  the  pin,  and  I  have  heard  and  seen  him  no  more. 
But  another  and  smaller  beetle  of  the  same  description 
is  now  making  arrangements  to  bury  a  dead  mole  in  the 
garden ;  and  if  the  beetles  would  kill  all  the  moles,  I 
would  not  disturb  them. 

It  is  the  instinct  of  this  bug  to  take  a  carcass,  and,  hav- 
ing covered  it  with  earth,  to  lay  its  eggs  in  it,  which  are 
hatched  during  the  decomposition.  This  is  any  thing  but 
a  pleasing  operation,  and  is  one  of  those  remarkable  ar- 
rangements of  nature  that  defy  all  human  reason  to  ex- 
plain the  why  and  wherefore.  But  it  is  so  with  many 
other  habits  of  the  lower  orders  of  creation.  They  have 
a  world  of  their  own  to  live  in,  far  below  ours ;  and  yet 
they  are  so  well  adapted  to  it  that  they  are  doubtless 
able  to  enjoy  it.  No  creature  of  God  is  made  to  be  mis- 
erable. And  if  we  can  not  see  what  comfort  a  beetle  can 
find  in  a  carcass,  or  what  pleasure  a  mole  gets  in  burrow- 
ing through  the  earth  in  search  of  his  food,  or  a  toad  in 

D 


50  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

his  sedentary  habits,  we  may  yet  believe  that  in  their  own 
way  they  answer  the  ends  for  which  they  are  made,  and 
take  as  much  enjoyment,  or  at  least  suffer  as  little,  as  the 
circumstances  of  the  case  admit.  It  is  quite  likely  that 
they  all  answer  some  useful  purpose.  If  man  is  the  high- 
est order  of  animal  on  the  earth,  the  ultimate  object  of 
insect  life  may  be  found  in  what  the  lower  orders  do  to 
promote  his  good.  But  happiness  is  not  man's  highest 
good ;  and  the  bugs  that  vex  and  bite  him,  when  they 
fail  to  make  him  happy,  may  yet  be  doing  him  good. 

I  have  spoken  of  the  naturalist  Audubon,  who,  pursuing 
the  work  of  his  life  in  studying  the  habits  of  birds,  would 
sit  or  lie  all  day  under  the  trees  in  the  forest,  watching, 
in  seclusion  and  silence,  the  motions  of  a  little  bird,  that 
he  might  record  its  manner  of  life.  And  with  equal  in- 
terest one  might  study  the  ways  and  means  of  a  beetle, 
and  make  notes  of  his  habits.  Entomology  is  a  subject 
that  invites  the  student  into  a  wide  and  beautiful  field  of 
investigation ;  and  if  it  were  studied  in  the  school,  it 
would  bring  children  into  the  habit  of  regarding  insects 
with  more  respect,  and  then  they  would  cease  to  persecute 
them,  as  they  do  now,  in  mere  sport  or  thoughtlessness. 
The  mote  that  floats  in  the  sunbeam  has  life,  and  a  com- 
plete world  of  its  own,  as  truly  and  perfectly  developed 
as  the  eagle  or  the  lion.     Cowper  said  : 

"  I  would  not  enter  on  my  list  of  friends 
(Though  graced  with  polished  manner  and  fine  sense, 
Yet  wanting  sensibility)  the  man 
Who  needlessly  sets  foot  upon  a  worm." 

Uncle  Toby  lifted  the  window  and  put  the  fly  out  of 
it,  saying,  "  There  is  room  enough  in  the  world  for  you 
and  me."  It  was  bloody  Nero  who  delighted  in  tortur- 
ing insects.     I  would  have  a  child  familiar  with  the  living 


BUGS.  5 1 

things  around  him,  and  fond  of  playing  with  them — find- 
ing enjoyment  in  friendship  with  the  animal  world,  re- 
garding all  as  the  creatures  of  God,  and  working  out  after 
their  own  order  his  praise. 

I  was  speaking  of  Covvper  just  now.  As  I  sit  here, 
and  the  squirrels  run  up  the  trunks  and  leap  from  tree  to 
tree,  or  sit  on  the  steps  as  if  they  were  part  of  the  family, 
I  recall  his  familiar  lines  : 

"These  shades  are  all  my  own.     The  timorous  hare, 
Grown  so  familiar  with  her  frequent  guest, 
Scarce  shuns  me,  and  the  stock-dove,  unalarmed, 
Sits  cooing  in  the  pine-tree,  nor  suspends 
His  long  love-ditty  for  my  near  approach. 
The  squirrel,  flippant,  pert,  and  full  of  play, 
He  sees  me,  and  at  once,  swift  as  a  bird, 
Ascends  the  neighboring  beech,  there  whisks  his  brush, 
And  perks  his  ears,  and  stamps,  and  cries, 
With  all  the  prettiness  of  feigned  alarm, 
And  anger  insignificantly  fierce." 

The  British  squirrels  must  be  more  demonstrative  than 
mine,  for  they  certainly  do  not  carry  on  in  this  style,  but 
disport  themselves  more  quietly  as  they  pursue  their  own 
pleasures,  heedless  of  the  human  company  that  intrudes 
upon  their  domains  without  disturbing  them.  Cowper, 
more  than  any  other,  is  a  friend  and  companion  for  the 
fireside  in  the  winter  and  the  shade  in  summer.  He  is 
just  the  man  yOu  wish  when  saying, 

"  But  grant  me  this  in  my  retreat, 
One  friend,  whom  I  may. whisper,  Solitude  is  sweet." 

It  was  he  who  said, 

"  'Tis  pleasant,  through  the  loopholes  of  retreat, 
To  peep  at  such  a  world ;   to  see  the  stir 
Of  the  great  Babel,  and  not  feel  the  crowd  ; 


52  UNDER   THE    TREES. 

To  hear  the  roar  she  sends  through  all  her  gates 
At  a  safe  distance,  where  the  dying  sound 
Falls  a  soft  murmur  on  th'  uninjured  ear." 

And  without  a  tinge  of  his  melancholy,  the  bane  of  his 
life,  but  in  sympathy  with  him  in  his  love  of  nature  and 
his  fellowship  with  beauty,  we  may  take  him  into  the 
country  with  us,  and  always  find  company  and  counsel  in 
his  pure  leaves. 


IX. 

AN  ARROW-HEAD. 

We  are  in  the  garden,  and  among  the  flowers  and  straw- 
berry beds,  and  rejoicing  in  the  morning  of  another  res- 
urrection. I  think  this  has  been  as  perfect  a  day  as  the 
Lord  ever  gave  me  to  enjoy.  Would  such  weather  be 
well  for  us  all  the  year  round?  Probably  not.  But  it 
suits  me  exactly,  as  any  weather  suited  the  shepherd. 

The  gardener  handed  me  a  flint  arrow-head  to-day, 
perhaps  once  used  by  the  Indians,  when  they  hunted  the 
forests  on  these  shores  of  the  Hudson.  It  suggested  to 
me  that  on  many  a  field  in  our  country  the  laborer  will 
find  implements  of  war,  rusted  or  buried,  fallen  from  the 
hands  of  our  countrymen.  Skeletons,  too.  How  many 
shallow  graves  will  be  plowed  over !  It  is  sweet  to  think 
that  the  days  of  warfare  are  accomplished,  the  flowers  are 
blossoming  on  the  field  of  the  crushed  skeleton,  and  peace 
reigns  again. 

But  this  flint  set  me  thinking  of  those  very  learned  men 
who  prove  that  man  has  lived  on  this  earth  thousands  and 
thousands  of  years  before  the  Bible  record  fixes  the  date 
of  his  creation.  They  prove  the  Bible  to  be  false  be- 
cause in  the  valley  of  the  Somme,  in  France,  a  vast  quan- 
tity of  these  flints  have  been  found,  which  appear  at  first 
sight  to  have  been  fashioned  by  human  hands,  and  they 
have  been  found  buried  under  such  conditions  that  geol- 
ogy assures  us  they  must  have  been  there  many  ages  on 


54  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

ages  before  the  Bible  period.  A  work  has  been  publish- 
ed in  England  to  show  the  "  Flint  Implements  from  Drift 
not  Authentic."  Some  kind  friend  has  sent  me  an  anal- 
ysis of  the  argument.  The  writer  remarks  with  equal 
point  and  truth  : 

"  Sir  Charles  Lyell  and  similar  writers  devote  the  whole 
of  their  energies  to  proving  the  almost  immeasurable  ages 
that  must  have  elapsed  since  the  deposit  of  the  flints  re- 
cently found  in  Picardy  and  elsewhere ;  and  on  deciding 
that  question  to  their  satisfaction,  consider  it  a  necessary 
and  unquestionable  conclusion  that  man  has  been  for  all 
these  tens  of  thousands  of  years  a  denizen  of  this  earth, 
and  that  without  leaving  any  other  traces  of  his  existence 
than  a  number  of  flints,  chipped  about  in  the  most  incon- 
venient way  possible  for  the  purpose  for  which  they  are 
supposed  to  have  been  designed.  But  they  appear  to 
overlook  the  prior  necessity  of  proving  that  these  '  flint 
implements'  are  really  the  handiwork  of  man.  The  only 
foundation  they  have  is  the  mere  opinion  of  a  few  scien- 
tific men,  against  which  is  to  be  set  the  verdict  to  the 
contrary  of  other  men  of  science  equally  learned ;  and 
yet  with  this  slender  lever  they  hope  to  overthrow  the 
credibility  of  the  infallible  Word  of  God. 

"  A  few  of  the  arguments  adduced  against  the  theory 
that  these  chipped  flints  are  human  productions  are  the 
following :  There  is  no  necessity  for  the  belief  that  they 
have  been  artificially  formed,  inasmuch  as  flint  has  a 
natural  tendency  to  break  into  shapes  similar  to  most  of 
those  that  have  been  found.  The  writer  of  the  pamphlet 
has  picked  up  numbers  of  most  perfect  '  knives  '  and 
'arrow-heads'  among  flints  that  have  been  broken  up 
to  mend  the  roads,  and  has  also  produced  them  —  by 
heating  a  flint  in  the  fire  and  then  cooling  it  suddenly — 


AN   ARROW-HEAD. 


55 


quite  equal  to  those  discovered  in  France.  They  are  ut- 
terly unsuited  for  use  as  arrow-heads.  The  conical  bulb 
at  the  lower  end  would  be  a  difficulty  in  fastening  them 
to  their  shafts,  the  curved  shape  of  many  of  them  would 
render  it  impossible  that  they  should  fly  straight,  and  the 
point  is  in  some  the  most  defective  part. 

"  The  good  and  the  bad  are  found  indiscriminately  mix- 
ed together ;  from  some  so  imperfect  as  to  make  it  im- 
possible to  ascribe  them  to  human  hands,  to  others  which 
might  from  their  appearance  have  been  so  produced. 
There  often  appears  to  be  most  chipping  on  those  most 
entirely  unsuitable  for  use,  and  among  the  rest  are  many 
so  small  as  to  be  quite  worthless  for  any  purpose  what- 
ever. This  is  just  as  we  might  expect  to  find  them  if 
formed  by  natural  causes,  but  quite  inconsistent  with  their 
being  artificial. 

"  They  are  none  of  them  at  all  ground  or  polished  as 
the  Celtic  flint  tools  are  found  to  have  been,  but  produced 
by  the  simple  fracture  of  the  flint  and  the  chipping  of  its 
side  ;  nor  do  any  of  them  bear  the  slightest  trace  of  ever 
having  been  used.  As  to  the  almond-shaped  flints,  found 
in  such  numbers  in  France  and  supposed  to  be  axe-heads, 
how  is  it  that  they  are  the  only  tools  or  similar  utensils 
to  be  found  there  ?  Surely  the  axe  could  not  be  the  only 
thing  used.  And  to  what  use  could  axes  have  been  put 
by  them  ?  The  climate  at  that  period  is  known  to  have 
been  as  cold  as  Iceland  is  now,  and  consequently  could 
produce  no  trees — nothing  larger  than  bushes  and  shrubs. 
It  is  suggested  that  they  were  used  for  cutting  holes  in 
the  ice  on  their  rivers;  but  it  would  have  been  impossi- 
ble to  cut  through  a  massive  coating  of  ice,  such  as  must 
then  have  existed,  with  an  implement  the  size  of  a  man's 
hand. 


56  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

"  The  immense  quantities  in  which  they  are  discovered 
renders  it  impossible  that  they  can  be  any  thing  else  than 
natural  formations.  From  the  large  number  that  has 
been  found  in  three  acres  of  land,  and  the  great  area 
which  the  '  implement'  beds  are  known  to  cover,  there 
must  be  along  the  banks  of  the  Somme  rather  more  than 
twelve  millions  of  them.  And  we  are  asked  to  believe  that 
these  are  just  the  lost  axes  of  such  a  population  as  could 
have  been  supported  in  those  icy  deserts  by  the  precari- 
ous sustenance  to  be  derived  from  the  chase ! 

"  It  is,  indeed,  a  wonderful  and  a  painful  thing  to  behold 
how  eager  a  certain  class  of  writers  in  the  present  day, 
including  not  a  few  men  of  most  unquestionable  talent 
and  even  piety,  ever  show  themselves  in  seizing  the  most 
flimsy  pretense  for  casting  discredit  upon  the  grand  and 
simple  verities  of  the  written  Word.  The  avidity  with 
which  the  discovery  of  the  supposed  'flint  implements'  in 
the  valley  of  the  Somme  has  been  pounced  upon  by  these 
gentlemen  as  affording  incontrovertible  proof  of  the  ex- 
istence of  pre- Adamite  man  is  an  instance  of  the  spirit 
which  we  deplore.  But  so  eager  are  they  to  create  a 
theory  that  they  overlook  the  most  startling  difficulties  in 
the  way  of  the  acceptance  of  their  creed.  They  will  swal- 
low the  largest  camel  that  can  be  found,  if  brought  before 
them  under  the  auspices  of  the  Geological  Society,  but 
turn  with  horror  from  a  tiny  gnat  that  even  appears  to 
have  settled  on  the  first  page  of  the  Bible,  although  all 
the  rest  of  the  world  can  see  that  it  is  nothing  but  a  speck 
of  dust  on  their  own  eyelash." 

This  last  illustration  reminds  me  of  a  fact  that  occur- 
red in  General  Ford's  barn,  in  Hoosic,  New  York,  some 
forty  or  fifty  years  ago.  One  of  his  hired  men,  a  stupid 
fellow,  had  been  out  with  a  gun,  and  taking  refuge  from 


AN    ARROW-HEAD. 


57 


the  rain  in  an  old  barn  or  hay-rick  that  had  little  or  noth- 
ing in  it,  he  saw  on  one  of  the  topmost  beams  an  owl,  at 
which  he  fired.  The  solemn  bird  sat  still,  and  he  fired 
again.  A  third  shot  never  disturbed  the  slumbers  of  the 
night  bird.  Beginning  to  be  a  little  alarmed,  he  put  up 
his  hand  to  his  eyes,  and  as  he  raised  the  eyelash  he 

found  that  a  1 was  resting  quietly  there,  and  he  had 

mistaken  it  for  an  owl  at  the  top  of  the  barn.  So  with 
many  of  our  modern  skeptics  :  blazing  away  at  the  owls 
which  they  fancy  to  exist  in  the  Bible,  they  are  fighting 
nothing  but  a  maggot  in  their  own  brain.  Our  writer  goes 
on  to  say : 

"  Some  of  these  theorizing  gentlemen  suggest  in  de- 
spair that  there  must  have  been  a  great  trade  carried  on 
in  this  neighborhood ;  that  Abbeville  was,  in  fact,  a  kind 
of  Birmingham  or  Sheffield  of  those  days.  But  can  it 
be  that  in  a  country  like  France,  in  which  chalk,  with 
flint,  occupies  an  area  of  forty  thousand  square  miles,  and 
where  the  raw  material  for  such  an  important  manufact- 
ure (!)  was  every  where  abundant  and  redundant,  any 
local  trade  without  a  circulating  medium  could  have  ex- 
isted ?  or  was  theirs  a  foreign  commerce,  carried  on  by 
ships  made  with  chipped'-flint  implements,  made  without 
planks,  without  iron,  without  cordage,  and  navigated  with- 
out sails  or  compass  ?  But  in  what  country,  geologically, 
could  such  manufactured  articles  find  a  market?  In  the 
countries  occupied  by  the  Secondary  and  Tertiary  forma- 
tions and  the  Drift-beds  there  could  have  been  no  buy- 
ers ;  the  article  was  every  where  under  their  feet ;  it 
would  have  been,  in  common  parlance, '  sending  coals  to 
Newcastle.'  And  in  the  lands  of  the  older  rocks,  stone 
tools  of  a  superior  form  are  ready  made  by  nature.  The 
carbonaceous  grits  of  North  Devon  are  split  by  divisional 


58  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

planes  and  cleavage  into  more  effective  arrow-heads  and 
chisel  points ;  and  the  pebble  ridge  of  Northam  would 
supply  an  unlimited  amount  of  magnificent  stone  ham- 
mers. There  could  have  been  no  demand  for  such  man- 
ufactured tools ;  and  we  can  only  infer  that  the  commer- 
cial and  speculative  savages  embarked  in  a  trade  which 
proved  a  perfect  failure,  and  in  their  disgust  cast  away 
innumerable  specimens  of  beautifully  made  tools,  which 
therefore  bear  no  marks  of  having  been  used,  and  with 
others  so  utterly  rude  and  unformed  that  it  requires  the 
'practiced  eye'  to  discover  the  marks  of  human  work- 
manship j  and  thus  the  good  and  the  bad,  the  raw  mate- 
rial and  the  manufactured  article,  are  mingled  in  one 
chaotic  mass — a  record  of  disappointed  hope,  mortified 
ambition,  and  speculative  commercial  despair.  Surely 
this  is  philosophy  in  sport  or  science  run  mad.  Was  this 
the  commerce — those  the  ships  whose  flag  braved  for  un- 
known years  the  battle  and  the  breeze,  when  '  the  arts  re- 
mained stationary  for  almost  indefinite  periods?'  This 
is  more  like  an  Oriental  romance,  more  akin  to  the  his- 
tory of  a  pre- Adamite  Robinson  Crusoe,  than  the  deduc- 
tions of  legitimate  science.  It  is  a  resuscitated  Daniel 
Defoe  who  writes,  and  not  the  author  of  the  Principles 
and  the  Manual  of  Geology." 


X. 

OCTOBER. 

Surely  one  who  writes  out-of-doors  ought  to  take  note 
of  the  seasons.  Thomson  wrote  his  poems  in  a  rustic 
summer-house,  no  better  than  one  within  ten  feet  of  my 
chair.  I  was  in  it  near  Richmond  Hill,  and  recollect  the 
record  on  the  wall  : 

"HERE  THOMSON   SANG  THE  SEASONS  AND  THEIR  CHANGE." 

But  he  could  not  have  lived  in  that  charming  spot 
when  he  began  his  career  as  a  poet,  for  he  first  wrote  his 
"  Winter,"  and  went  from  one  publisher  to  another  trying 
to  sell  the  manuscript  that  he  might  buy  for  himself  a 
pair  of  shoes.  With  success  as  a  poet  he  obtained  pat- 
ronage and  a  place  that  gave  him  three  hundred  a  year, 
which  made  him  comfortable.  His  "  Seasons"  are  among 
the  pleasantest  of  all  the  English  classic  poems  to  read 
in  the  country.  Parts  of  them  are  too  sensuous  for  the 
more  delicate  tastes  of  our  times,  but  Thomson  had  a 
soul  to  enjoy  the  beauties  and  glories  of  the  country,  and 
set  them  in  his  verse  with  a  mellow  melody  delicious  to 
read  or  hear. 

It  is  now  nearly  the  middle  of  the  month,  and  so  warm 
in  this  latitude  that  it  is  as  delightful  to  sit  out  under  the 
trees  and  enjoy  a  book  or  a  pen  as  it  has  been  any  time 
this  summer.  In  the  spring  we  often  think,  if  we  do  not 
say,  that  we  would  love  to  have  such  weather  all  the  year. 


60  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

But  this  October  weather,  such  as  we  are  now  having, 
is  more  enjoyable  than  soft  and  genial  May.  It  is  cool 
and  bracing.  It  invites  to  labor.  Toil  of  mind  and  body 
suits  the  month.  One  feels  like  work,  and  springs  to  it 
with  a  will.  To  work  is  play  when  one's  limbs  are  free, 
strong,  and  willing.  It  is  a  blessing  that  we  are  com- 
pelled to  work,  as  our  first  parents  were  when  they  were 
put  into  a  garden  to  dress  and  keep  it,  even  before  they 
dressed  themselves.  To  have  nothing  to  do  is  worse  than 
to  have  nothing  to  wear. 

The  weather  is  so  enjoyable  that  I  am  reminded  of  a 
letter  I  had  a  few  days  ago  from  an  unknown  friend,  re- 
proving me  kindly  for  saying  in  one  of  my  recent  letters 
that  my  equanimity  of  soul  would  be  disturbed  if  the  wind 
should  turn  about  into  the  northeast  and  a  cold  storm 
should  set  in.  He  says  that,  although  he  has  had  a  life 
of  sighing,  he  is  never  disturbed  by  the  weather,  and  he 
thinks  I  ought,  like  the  Shepherd  of  Salisbury  Plain,  to 
think  that  weather  best  which  the  Lord  sends.  And  so 
I  do.  When  bad  weather  drives  me  in,. or  gives  me  aches, 
or  defeats  my  plans,  I  am  afflicted ;  but  it  is  good  to  be 
afflicted,  and  so  I  rejoice  in  adversity.  I  am  disturbed 
when  things  go  as  I  would  not  like  to  have  them  go,  and 
I  do  not  love  trouble  more  than  other  men ;  but  I  know 
that  He  who  orders  all  things,  the  weather  as  well  as 
others,  knows  what  is  best  on  the  whole,  and  therefore  I 
take  it  as  it  comes.  "When  it  rains,  let  it  rain,"  is  a 
motto  that  I  have  a  hereditary  right  to  wear  under  my 
coat-of-arms,  for  it  was  the  motto  of  a  father  who  never 
failed  of  an  appointment  on  account  of  a  storm,  and  al- 
ways took  the  world  as  the  Lord  gave  it,  without  a  mur- 
mur or  a  frown.  To  be  indifferent  to  the  weather,  or  to 
disappointments  or  crosses  or  trials,  is  not  virtue  nor 


OCTOBER.  6 I 

manliness.  But  to  be  patient  when  one's  peace  of  mind 
is  disturbed,  to  control  the  rising  discontent,  to  refrain 
from  sighing,  to  put  on  and  wear  a  cheerful  face,  so  that 
our  vexation  shall  not  vex  others,  this  is  virtue,  and  one 
who  is  always  sighing  has  it  not.  It  is  easy  for  a  man  to 
make  his  family  and  his  friends  miserable  by  showing 
his  own  griefs  and  cares  and  little  troubles  that  he  ought 
to  leave  in  his  study  or  store,  or  out  on  the  farm.  When 
he  is  at  home,  let  him  be  cheerful  and  bright,  and  good- 
tempered  and  patient,  as  becomes  the  head  of  the  house, 
the  sun  in  whose  light  and  warmth  all  the  plants  should 
rejoice  and  shine. 

But  where  were  we  ?  October  ■  it  is  not  likely  that  we 
shall  forget  it,  for  the  evidences  are  all  around  us  that 
the  days  of  autumn  have  come.  The  chestnuts  are  drop- 
ping around  me  as  I  write,  though  as  yet  we  have  had  no 
frost  to  open  the  burrs,  which  do  not  wait  for  that,  but 
burst  when  the  nuts  are  ripe  and  ready  for  harvest:  The 
squirrels  are  busy  for  their  share,  and  we  suffer  no  dis- 
turbing stone  or  gun  to  dispute  their  right  to  all  they  can 
get.  Two  wild  pigeons  just  now  came  into  the  tree  un- 
der which  I  am  sitting— beautiful  birds ;  and  after  hold- 
ing a  short  conversation,  they  flew  away.  Thousands  of 
them  are  now  on  the  wing  to  a  warmer  clime.  They  need 
not  hasten,  for  the  weather  is  mild  enough  for  them  yet, 
and  they  can  fly  to  the  South  in  a  single  day  whenever 
they  choose  to  make  the  journey. 

Many  of  the  forest  trees  have  already  put  on  their 
proud  autumnal  dress  ;  the  maples  and  beeches  and  oaks 
have  begun  to  change.  The  second  growth  of  late  sum- 
mer and  early  fall,  which  is  rarely  noted  but  is  always  ob- 
servable, is  now  losing  its  distinctive  hue.  Along  in  July 
a  fresh  impulse  seems  to  be  given  to  the  sap  in  shrubs 


62  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

and  trees,  and  you  will  see  that  a  new  growth  starts  up 
with  a  tender,  delicate  green  like  early  spring  \  and  this 
lies,  another  color,  like  a  streak  of  sunshine  on  a  darker 
brown  of  the  other  foliage.  It  is  now  all  alike.  And 
how  radiant  is  that  maple-tree  in  its  scarlet  robe !  And 
here  is  a  tree  that  was  lately  a  deep  green,  now  suddenly 
clothed  in  yellow  from  the  ground  to  its  crown.  Some 
of  the  very  fanciful  landscapers  have  endeavored  to  pro- 
duce wonderful  effects  of  beauty  by  setting  out  trees  in 
regular  succession  of  autumnal  colors,  to  have  them  in 
the  order  of  the  spectrum  as  nearly  as  may  be,  improving 
upon  the  arrangement  of  nature.  The  effect  is  far  from 
satisfactory.  To  paint  the  lily  or  the  rose  would  be  as 
wise  as  to  make  a  forest  of  colors  by  any  law  of  the 
schools.  As  the  heavens  declare  the  glory  of  God,  so 
the  mountains  and  forests  display  his  taste  and  skill.. 
He  makes  them  living  pictures ;  arranging  the  lights  and 
shades  and  hues  with  infinite  art,  himself  the  artist  whom 
no  rival  can  reach.  To  paint  like  him  would  be  too 
much  glory  for  any  man.  To  be  like  him  is  more ;  yet 
this  is  what  the  humblest  may.  To  see  his  beauty  in 
these  autumn  leaves  is  great.  Yet  we  may  have  more ; 
we  shall  be  like  him,  for  we  shall  see  him  as  he  is. 


XL 

A  FRIEND'S  VISIT. 

We  have  just  parted  from  a  friend  whd  has  been  spend- 
ing a  few  days  with  us  under  the  trees.  Poets  have  sung 
the  pleasures  of  solitude,  and  if  there  were  any  place  in 
the  world  where  a  man  might  be  alone,  yet  not  alone,  it 
would  be  this  secluded  woodside,  where  the  sky  looks 
down  on  us  as  a  constant  benediction  of  Providence,  and 
the  river  lives  and  moves  and  smiles  continually  at  our 
feet,  and  the  old  trees  lift  up  their  branches  in  perpetual 
psalms.  This  is  solitude  in  the  midst  of  nature's  voices, 
with  God  all  around  us  in  his  unwritten  word,  speaking 
in  the  sunshine  and  the  showers,  the  flowers,  the  fruits, 
the  growth  of  every  thing,  and  now  in  the  ripening  and 
the  fall  of  leaves  that  tell  us  autumn  has  come  and  winter 
is  nigh.  Solitude  is  scarcely  solitary  here,  where  every 
blade  of  grass  and  every  oak  and  pine  are  companions, 
as  well  as  the  little  rabbit  that  sports  in  the  walk  and  flies 
at  my  coming,  as  he  would  not  if  he  knew  me  better ;  and 
the  squirrel  who  shares  the  nuts,  and  establishes  his  dwell- 
ing among  them  to  make  sure  of  his  portion.  With  all 
this  company,  and  that  other  "  bliss  of  Paradise  that  es- 
caped the  fall,"  I  had  been  longing  for  the  sight  and 
voice  of  a  friend  whose  presence  is  always  like  that  of 
the  sun. 

And  so  he  came.  Thanks  be  to  God  for  friends. 
Thanks  be  to  him  for  one  friend  :  for  one  with  whom 


64  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

sweet  counsel  can  be  taken  in  the  retirement  of  one's 
own  house  and  heart ;  one  friend  to  whom  you  may  tell 
all  your  plans  and  hopes  and  fears  ;  who  will  share  his 
with  you,  and  make  the  world  brighter  and  life's  burden 
lighter,  because  his  sympathy  and  his  experience  and  his 
wisdom  make  up  for  your  weakness  and  want  of  faith. 
It  is  a  grand  error,  too,  that  friendship  is  less  sweet  in 
later  life,  and  even  in  old  age,  than  in  the  sunny  times  of 
youth.  Two  of  the  early  pieces  of  Latin  that  I  had  to 
write  into  English  were  Cicero  on  Friendship  and  on  Old 
Age,  and  the  fine  philosophy  that  glowed  in  those  beauti- 
ful pages  has  been  a  life-long  pleasure.  Nothing  in  the 
poetry  or  prose  of  man's  life  on  earth  is  more  lovely  than 
a  virtuous  old  age  cheered  with  the  friendship  of  the  wise 
and  good.  And  why  should  any  sensible  man  be  averse 
to  old  age,  and  strive  to  hide  from  himself  and  others  that 
he  is  advanced  in  years  ?  If  his  days  are  crowned  with 
goodness,  and  his  mind  is  a  storehouse  in  which  the  har- 
vests of  successive  years  have  been  garnered,  and  the  law 
of  kindness  is  on  his  lips,  and  love  throws  its  arms  around 
him,  or  plays  at  his  knees,  and  hope  opens  heaven  on  his 
eye,  and  peace  dwells  in  his  soul — a  foretaste  of  the  rest 
that  remains  for  him  when  his  pilgrimage  is  closed — why 
should  not  old  age  be  the  happiest,  cosiest,  loveliest  sea- 
son of  the  life  on  earth  ?  The  heart  never  grows  old,  and 
out  of  the  heart  are  the  issues  of  life.  The  soul  never 
grows  old,  and  the  soul  is  the  man.  This  poor,  aching 
frame  of  ours  is  not  the  thing  that  is  to  be,  and  not  the 
thing  that  is,  if  we  reckon  by  the  power  to  be,  to  do,  to 
suffer,  and  to  enjoy.  The  life  in  us  is  the  life  of  the  soul; 
that  loves,  learns,  hopes,  rejoices  in  the  smile  of  God  and 
friends,  and  lives  the  most  "when  this  poor  stammering 
tongue  lies  silent  in  the  grave." 


a  friend's  visit.  65 

Our  friend  who  came  to  see  us  you  would  not  dare  to 
call  an  old  man.  Even  the  hand  of  time  has  dealt  so  ten- 
derly with  him  that  not  a  wrinkle  furrows  his  brow,  and 
his  hair  is  brown  as  a  boy's,  though  he  tells  us  he  was 
born  in  the  last  century,  and  we  are  bound  to  believe  him, 
as  he  is  the  soul  of  truth.  Yet  why  not  speak  of  him  as 
old,  for  he  has  all  that  helps  to  make  a  man  revered,  and 
years  enough  to  make  him  venerable  have  flown  over  him, 
if  they  have  not  shed  the  frosts  of  their  winters  on  his 
head.  It  has  been  summer  with  him  always,  and  his 
heart  is  warm  now.  He  brought  with  him  whatever 
makes  life  a  charm  and  blessing.  Genial,  cheerful,  so- 
cial, his  mind  is  stored  with  all  manner  of  pleasant  mem- 
ories of  men  and  places,  things  and  scenes,  in  the  Old 
World  and  our  own,  for  few  men  have  read  more,  traveled 
more  abroad  and  at  home,  met  more  of  those  men  and 
women  whom  the  world  loves  to  talk  of  and  remember ; 
few  have  written  more,  and  as  reading  makes  a  full  man, 
writing  a  correct  man,  conversation  a  ready  man,  and 
society  an  accomplished  man,  our  friend  should  have 
brought  with  him  the  means  of  enlightening  the  darkness 
and  enlivening  the  dullness  of  our  woods;  and  he  did. 
And  over  all  the  charms  of  intercourse  with  one  so  richly 
furnished  with  the  stores  of  learning  and  gifts  of  graceful 
culture,  the  higher  and  purer  beauty  of  religion  shone  in 
every  word  and  way. 

How  sweet  the  hours,  the  days,  in  such  society !  How 
rich  the  flow  of  thought  and  feeling  that  came  from  his 
lips  like  a  river  of  delight,  as  he  spoke  of  former  times,  of 
great  and  good  men  now  conversing  with  the  angels  in 
heaven  i  of  books,  that  inexhaustible  fountain  of  instruc- 
tion and  delight  when  congenial  minds  wander  without 
method  from  one  to  another,  over  the  fields  of  ancient 

E 


66  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

and  modern  times ;  yes,  and  of  books  that  are  to  be,  or 
that  might  be  and  ought  to  be,  that  the  world  is  waiting 
for,  and  would  welcome  with  favor  if  the  man  to  make 
them  would  come  and  do  the  work ;  of  art,  whose  plastic 
hand  has  made  beauty  a  household  treasure,  and  adorned 
the  world  with  fair  creations  that  delight  the  eye  of  taste, 
and  stand  from  age  to  age  the  monuments  of  genius  ;  of 
nature  lying  in  her  loveliness  all  about  us,  her  summer 
garments  just  now  exchanged  for  the  richer  robes  of  au- 
tumn ;  the  grand  old  trees  stretching  their  protecting  arms 
abroad,  as  if  they  loved  to  fold  us  in  their  embrace  ;  rich, 
ripe  fruit  pendant  from  many  a  vine  and  branch,  telling 
of  the  bounty  of  the  Universal  Father,  blessed  forever, 
whose  love  and  skill  appear  in  every  leaf  and  ray ;  of 
friends,  and  those  who  are  bound  to  us  by  sweeter  names, 
whose  love  is  the  balm  of  all  life's  sorrow,  and  the  fullness, 
in  itself,  of  life's  every  joy. 

In  such  discourse  the  hours  went  swiftly  by,  till  the 
time  for  his  departure  came.  Too  soon,  but  still  it  came. 
And  when  he  left  us,  it  was  as  if  half  the  world  had  gone, 
so  great  the  void  and  our  regret. 

u  When  one  that  holds  communion  with  the  skies, 
Has  filled  his  urn  where  these  pure  waters  rise, 
And  once  more  mingles  with  us  meaner  things, 
'Tis  e'en  as  if  an  angel  shook  his  wings  ; 
Immortal  fragrance  fills  the  circuit  wide 
That  tells  us  whence  his  treasures  are  supplied.'" 

He  has  left  precious  memories.  We  are  glad  that  he 
has  been  here,  even  while  we  miss  him  from  these  famil- 
iar seats  and  walks.  His  form,  his  smile,  his  words  of 
wisdom  and  affection  are  now  linked  with  all  we  see. 
Here  he  sat.  there  we  walked ;  here  he  told  us  of  one 
whom  we  had  known  in  another  land,  now  in   another 


a  friend's  visit.  67 

world,  and  here  we  laid  out  work  for  future  years.  Each 
step  and  tree  and  scene  will  remind  us  of  him.  He  is 
part  of  us  and  ours.  And  when  he  was  away  out  of 
sight  and  hearing,  I  sat  down  in  an  old  rustic  chair  that 
he  had  been  sitting  in  an  hour  before,  and  I  said — 

"  What  are  meetings  here  but  partings  ? 
What  are  ecstasies  but  smartings? 
Union  what  but  separations  ? 
What  attachments  but  vexations  ? 

Every  smile  but  brings  its  tear, 

Love  its  ache  and  hope  its  fear; 

All  that's  sweet  must  bitter  prove  ; 

All  we  hold  most  dear  remove  ! 

"  Heavenward  rise  !   'tis  Heaven  in  kindness 
Mars  our  bliss  to  heal  our  blindness ; 
Hope  from  vanity  to  sever, 
Offering  joys  that  bloom  forever. 

In  that  amaranthine  clime, 

Far  above  the  tears  of  time, 

Where  nor  fear  nor  hope  intrude, 

Lost  in  pure  beatitude." 


XII. 

CONVERSATION. 

The  savor  of  his  conversation  lingers  so  pleasingly. 
He  has  the  happy  faculty  of  saying  the  right  thing  at  the 
right  time,  and  that  is  high  art.  It  is  the  art  of  conver- 
sation, a  rare  accomplishment,  attained  by  few  because  it 
is  thought  to  come  of  itself,  and  not  to  be  sought,  studied, 
and  cultivated,  as  music  or  dancing  is  by  those  who  would 
excel  in  either.  Probably  it  does  come  of  itself,  but  only 
to  one  who  is  well  read,  ready,  and  full  of  practice.  It 
grows  upon  a  man  doubtless,  unconsciously  to  himself 
but  not  to  his  friends,  and  they  delight  in  him  when  he  is 
quite  unaware  of  the  pleasure  he  is  conferring. 

Our  friend  who  has  just  left  us  has  had  the  best  oppor- 
tunity of  becoming  perfect  in  this  art.  He  has  read 
much,  written  much,  traveled  much,  met  the  best,  wisest, 
and  greatest  men  in  our  own  and  other  lands,  listened  to 
them,  talked  to  and  with  them,  and  remembers  every  body 
and  every  thing,  so  that  he  illustrates  his  conversation 
with  frequent  anecdote  and  incident,  quotes  correctly  sen- 
tences from  speeches,  sermons,  and  books,  imitates  the 
manner  of  the  speaker  admirably,  giving  a  passage  from 
Everett  or  Robert  Hall,  Channing  or  Webster,  so  that 
you  might  imagine  the  orators  themselves  before  you,  and 
this  discourse,  flowing  easily  from  lively  to  severe,  is  sea- 
soned with  salt,  sometimes  Attic,  always  to  the  taste  of 
the  company,  never  flagging,  never  wearying,  always  rest- 


CONVERSATION.  69 

ing  when  others  have  any  thing  to  say,  and  listening  with 
graceful  attention  when  they  speak,  and — but  this  sen- 
tence is  long  and  must  come  to  an  end. 

We  have  traditions  and  records  of  men  who  were  great 
in  conversation,  as  Dr.  Johnson  and  Coleridge,  but  they 
were  not  strictly  conversationists.  The  idea  of  con-vers- 
ing is  a  mutual  interchange  of  thought,  a  reciprocation  of 
ideas ;  there  is  little  of  this  in  Johnson,  who  was  so  dog- 
matical as  scarcely  to  allow  any  one  else  to  have  an  opin- 
ion, certainly  not  to  express  it  in  his  presence  without  re- 
buke. He  was  a  tyrant  among  his  friends,  autocrat  of 
the  dinner-table,  and  a  bear  always.  Goldsmith  said  of 
him,  "  If  his  pistol  missed  fire,  he  knocked  you  down  with 
the  butt  end  of  it."  Yet  some  of  his  contemporaries  tell 
us  that  he  led  people  about  him  to  talk  of  the  matters 
with  which  they  were  the  most  familiar,  and  so  became 
possessed  of  their  information.  In  this  way  he  pleased 
them,  by  making  them  think  they  pleased  him. 

Coleridge  discoursed  rather  than  conversed.  His  con- 
versation was  like  the  handle  of  the  teapot,  all  on  one 
side.  Dr.  Dibdin,  dining  at  the  same  table  with  him,  de- 
scribes his  manner  :  "  He  rolled  himself  up,  as  it  were,  in 
his  chair,  and  gave  the  most  unrestrained  indulgence  to 
his  speech;  and  how  fraught  with  acuteness  and  origi- 
nality was  that  speech,  and  in  what  copious  and  eloquent 
periods  did  it  flow !  The  auditors  seemed  rapt  in  won- 
der and  delight,  as  one  observation  more  profound  or 
clothed  in  more  forcible  language  than  another  fell  from 
his  tongue.  He  spoke  for  nearly  two  hours  with  unhesi- 
tating and  uninterrupted  fluency.  Thinking  and  speak- 
ing were  his  delight,  and  he  would  sometimes  seem,  dur- 
ing the  most  fervid  moments  of  discourse,  to  be  abstract- 
ed from  all  and  every  thing  about  him,  and  to  be  basking 


70  UNDER   THE    TREES. 

in  the  sunny  warmth  of  his  own  radiant  imagination." 
This  is  not  the  art  of  conversation — it  is  the  art  of  speak- 
ing. It  is  not  the  entertainment  of  the  social  hour,  but 
the  very  thing  for  the  lecture-room.  It  justifies  the  reply 
of  Charles  Lamb  to  Coleridge,  who  said  to  him,  "  Did  you 
ever  hear  me  preach  ?"  Lamb  replied,  "  I  never  heard 
you  do  any  thing  else."  Coleridge  began  public  life  as  a 
preacher.  He  soon  left  the  pulpit,  but  he  continued  to 
discourse  daily  while  he  lived.  Perhaps  no  man  ever  ex- 
celled him  in  the  power  of  expressing  great  thoughts  in 
the  happiest  manner  without  premeditation. 

Of  all  the  men  whom  I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  meet- 
ing in  social  life,  no  one  has  conversational  powers  su- 
perior, if  equal,  to  Mr.  Kinney,  our  late  Minister  at  Turin, 
when  Italy  was  not  as  now  under  one  king.  Without 
dogmatism  or  pedantry,  he  gives  expression  to  the  stores 
of  a  richly  furnished  mind  in  language  at  once  simple 
and  eloquent ;  fluently  putting  forth  his  thoughts  in 
the  readiest  but  best  chosen  words,  with  energy,  yet 
with  courtesy  and  deference.  His  earnestness  is  infec- 
tious. He  rouses  those  about  him  to  speak  as  well  as  to 
hear,  and  thus  his  discourse  soon  becomes  the  animated 
and  delightful  converse  of  the  social  circle.  One  even- 
ing —  I  remember  it  well  —  a  shallow  free-thinker  in  a 
brilliant  circle  in  Florence  had  been  speaking  lightly  of 
some  of  the  truths  of  religion  because  to  him  they  were 
unintelligible  ;  he  added,  "  I  will  never  believe  any  thing 
that  I  can  not  understand."  "  And  pray  tell  us,"  said 
Mr.  Kinney,  "what  you  do  understand V  The  man  was 
confounded  by  the  suddenness  of  the  demand,  and  Mr. 
Kinney  proceeded  with  great  calmness  but  with  a  wealth 
of  illustration  and  logical  force  to  show  that  we  under- 
stand little  or  nothing  of  the  simplest  and  commonest 


CONVERSATION.  7 1 

things  which  we  do  not  hesitate  to  believe — the  relations 
of  mind  and  matter — the  phenomena  of  the  world  of  nat- 
ure— even  principles  in  art,  by  which  grand  results  are 
reached,  and  which  we  do  not  refuse  to  apply,  are  all  be- 
yond our  power  to  comprehend.  Yet  this  rebuke  and  in- 
struction were  conveyed  in  terms  so  graceful  and  engag- 
ing that  the  pleasure  overcame  our  pity  for  the  man  who 
had  invited  such  a  criticism. 

There  is  this  marked  difference  in  conversation  among 
cultivated  people  abroad  and  at  home,  that  here  the  opin- 
ions of  others  are  challenged  with  greater  freedom  and 
opposed  with  more  bluntness,  while  abroad  dissent  is 
rather  implied  than  asserted.  Here  men  oftener  discuss 
than  converse.  There  the  interchange  of  opinion  and  in- 
formation is  made  as  if  all  were  on  the  same  side,  and 
each  was  seeking  to  learn  rather  than  to  teach.  Yet  this 
is  not  peculiar  to  conversational  circles.  Social  inter- 
course has  much  less  friction  there  than  with  us.  Society 
is  tolerant  of  opinion,  and  policy  controls  the  words  of 
men  and  women  more  than  it  does  here,  where  every  man 
thinks  he  is  as  good  as  his  neighbor,  if  not  a  little  better. 
Chesterfield  is  supreme  in  the  law  of  manners  abroad, 
and  a  sin  against  good-breeding  is  worse,  in  many  of  the 
higher  spheres,  than  a  crime  in  morals.  The  advantage 
is  with  us  on  the  score  of  honesty,  frankness,  sincerity, 
but  with  them  in  the  matter  of  ease,  gracefulness,  and  so- 
cial pleasure.  We  ought  to  reach  perfection  in  both  and 
all.  It  is  a  pity  that  civilization  tends  in  any  way  or  de- 
gree to  make  society  insincere.  But  the  more  that  men 
learn  to  regard  language  as  intended  to  "conceal  their 
thoughts,"  the  less  honest  they  become,  and  more  like 
politicians  and  diplomats  than  statesmen,  scholars,  and 
friends. 


72  UNDER   THE    TREES. 

Of  the  social  circle  he  is  the  life  and  charm  whose 
mind  is  stored  with  knowledge  of  matters  and  things  in 
general,  conversant  with  the  past  and  present — history, 
poetry,  and  philosophy  :  who  has  a  memory  ready  to  an- 
swer instantly  every  call,  with  anecdote  to  illustrate,  wit 
to  enliven,  and  fluency  to  speak ;  is  patient  of  contradic- 
tion, and  full  of  gentleness,  goodness,  and  truth. 


XIII. 

AUTHORS. 

Next  to  reading  good  books,  we  enjoy  reading  about 
the  authors  of  them.  It  is  the  next  best  thing  to  know- 
ing them.  Indeed,  it  is  often  better.  For  we  are  some- 
times so  sadly  disappointed  when  we  come  to  meet  peo- 
ple of  whom  we  have  read  and  heard  much,  that  we  are 
rather  sorry  than  otherwise  we  have  had  "  the  pleasure 
of  their  acquaintance."  Even  St.  Paul  anticipated  this 
when  he  spoke  of  his  "weighty"  epistles,,  and  his  bodily 
presence  "weak  and  contemptible."  Something  in  the 
style  or  something  we  have  heard  helps  us  to  an  image 
of  the  author's  person,  and  then  of  his  manner,  and  it  is 
painful  to  have  this  illusion  dispelled.  At  the  annual 
Literary  Fund  Dinner  in  London,  I  met  a  large  number 
of  eminent  authors.  I  was  disenchanted.  Many  of  them 
were  totally  different  from  the  ideal.  The  little  child 
who  was  held  up  to  a  window  in  Newport  to  look  in  at 
George  Washington,  expressed  the  almost  universal  feel- 
ing on  one's  first  sight  of  a  hero,  "Why  he's  only  a  man." 

And  men  are  not  always  the  same,  so  that  the  accounts 
we  have  of  them  are  as  diverse  as  their  sketches.  M. 
Ampere  says  of  M.  de  Tocqueville,  who  was  remarkable 
for  the  purity  of  his  language  in  the  most  familiar  conver- 
sation :  "  While  sitting  on  the  rocks  around  Sorrento,  I 
might  have  written  down  (and  why  did  I  not?)  all  that 
escaped  his  lips  in  those  moments  of  friendly  intercourse." 


74  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

It  so  happens  that  I  have  enjoyed  familiar  converse  with 
the  same  illustrious  author,  philosopher,  and  statesman, 
M.  de  Tocqueville,  and,  singularly  indeed,  under  similar 
circumstances ;  we  were  sitting,  not  "  on  the  rocks  around 
Sorrento,"  but  on  a  rail  fence .  overlooking  this  Hudson 
River ;  and  then  and  there  the  French  author  referred  to 
the  identical  scenery  he  was  perusing  when  M.  Ampere 
and  he  were  conversing,  for  he  said  to  me,  "  We  will  ex- 
cept the  Bay  of  Naples  out  of  deference  to  the  opinion  of 
the  world,  but,  after  that,  I  never  saw  a  more  beautiful 
scene  than  this."  I  was  not  impressed  by  the  style  of 
his  conversation,  as  Ampere  was,  but  it  was  doubtless 
owing  to  the  fact  that  he  spoke  with  me  in  English,  while 
he  and  Ampere  were  of  course  using  their  own  beautiful 
language. 

Guizot  says  of  Gibbon  that  his  great  conversational  de- 
fect was  a  studied  arrangement  of  his  words — that  he  talk- 
ed like  a  book.  I  have  heard  Guizot  talk,  and  his  words 
flow  as  readily  as  if  they  were  in  his  memory,  and  not  to 
be  found  for  the  occasion.  The  most  learned  men  are 
not  the  most  fluent  in  conversation.  Christopher  North 
ridicules  a  dinner-table  distinguished  by  the  literary  type 
of  its  guests.  "  Even  poets,"  he  says, "  are  a  sulky  set,  and 
as  gruffly  and  grimly  silent  as  if  they  had  the  toothache 
or  something  the  matter  wi'  their  inside."  Sir  Walter 
Scott  could  not  endure  the  "little  exclusive  circles  of 
literary  society."  "He  often  complained,"  says  Jacox, 
"  of  the  real  dullness  of  parties  where  each  guest  arrived 
under  the  implied  and  tacit  obligation  of  exhibiting  some 
extraordinary  powers  of  talk  or  wit." 

Emerson  is  one  of  the  profoundest  thinkers,  but  he  is 
very  simple  in  his  conversation ;  he  is  childlike  in  his 
simplicity,  or,  to  use  his  own  words  speaking  of  another, 


AUTHORS.  75 

he  is  "grandly  simple."  I  have  listened  to  him  wonder- 
ing that  while  the  depths  are  so  great  there  is  so  little  on 
the  surface,  yet  that  little  so  beautiful. 

The  most  learned  woman  it  was  ever  my  good-fortune 
to  meet,  and  probably  the  most  learned  woman  who  ever 
lived,  was  Mrs.  Somerville,  the  mathematician,  astrono- 
mer, and  philosopher.  In  fact,  she  was  encyclopedic. 
She  but  recently  died  at  the  age  of  about  ninety,  for 
she  was  born  in  1780.  It  was  in  1853  I  met  her  in  Flor- 
ence, and  she  was  therefore  then  seventy-three  years  old, 
and  in  the  prime  of  life  and  mental  vigor.  Her  bust  in 
marble  had  before  that  time  been  placed  by  the  side  of 
Sir  Isaac  Newton's,  and  no  one  more  justly  deserves  the 
honor.  But  she  was  as  simply  natural  and  as  easily 
graceful  in  her  conversation  as  if  she  had  never  calcu- 
lated an  eclipse  since  she  was  the  reigning  belle  in  Scot- 
land, admired  for  her  beauty  and  accomplishments,  but 
not  suspected  of  genius  or  learning,  and  unthinking  of 
fame. 

Horace  Walpole  quotes  with  fondness  the  remark  of 
one  of  Fanny  Burney's  friends  :  "  I  made  a  resolution 
early  never  to  be  acquainted  with  authors — they  are  so 
vain  and  so  troublesome."  And  Jeffrey  said  of  London 
society,  "  The  literary  men,  I  acknowledge,  excite  my 
reverence  the  least."  It  is  often  the  case  that  the  very 
pressure  both  of  wisdom  and  knowledge  shuts  the  mouth. 
To  say  any  thing  worth  saying  is  far  more  of  an  under- 
taking for  a  wise  man  than  a  fool.  Fools  rush  in,  or  out, 
where  angels  fear  to  tread.  Mrs.  E.  B.  Browning  says: 
"  How  many  are  there,  from  Psellus  to  Bayle,  bound  hand 
and  foot  intellectually  with  the  rolls  of  their  own  papyrus 
— men  whose  erudition  has  grown  stronger  than  their 
souls."     But  Mrs.  Browning  was  herself  an  illustration  of 


j6  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

the  truth  that  one  may  be  full  of  thought,  reading,  and 
genius,  and  as  readily  social  and  agreeable  as  if  she  were 
no  greater  than  those  with  whom  she  conversed.  Thus 
she  appeared  to  me  in  society,  when  poets  and  artists 
hovered  around  her,  and  again  in  her  own  Casa  Guidi, 
with  a  few  friends  near  her,  her  only  child  at  her  knee, 
looking  up  reverently  into  her  sad  face. 

One  of  the  most  genial  and  pleasant  old  men  I  ever 
met  of  the  race  of  authors  was  the  poet  James  Mont- 
gomery. He  was  so  old  when  I  saw  him  in  his  own  house 
in  Sheffield  that  I  would  not  have  looked  for  vivacity  and 
humor  in  his  conversation,  but  he  was  very  lively  in  his 
manner ;  and  when  he  gave  me  his  birthday,  and  it  proved 
to  be  mine  also,  and  then  his  age,  which  was  the  double 
of  mine  to  a  day,  the  coincidences  were  welcomed  with 
mutual  and  great  delight. 

Ready  writing  is  written  down  as  one  of  the  greatest 
accomplishments,  and  yet  it  is  a  serious  question  whether 
it  is  in  the  long  run  as  desirable  a  talent  as  the  want  of 
it.  When  a  great  painter,  whose  name  is  now  almost 
unknown  to  fame,  was  boasting  of  the  celerity  with  which 
he  dispatched  his  work,  Zeuxis,  whose  name  still  lives 
among  the  arts,  replied,  "  If  I  boast,  it  shall  be  of  the 
slowness  with  which  I  finish  mine." 

Preachers  who  write  their  sermons  gain  little  and  lose 
much  by  dashing  off  their  discourses  with  railroad  speed. 
Haste  makes  waste,  and  a  dreary  waste  it  is  that  is  spread 
out  before  a  people  whose  teacher  brings  to  them  on  a 
Sunday  that  which  has  cost  him  nothing  through  the 
week.  A  minister  neighbor  of  mine  was  in  my  house 
until  nearly  bed-time  Saturday  night,  and  when  he  rose 
to  go,  remarked  :  "  I've  half  a  sermon  yet  to  write  for  to- 
morrow ;  don't  you  feel  sorry  for  me  ?" 


AUTHORS.  77 

"  Oh  no,"  said  I,  "  not  for  you ;  I  was  thinking  of  the 
people." 

The  Rev.  Dr.  Sprague  is  the  only  man  I  ever  knew 
who  can  write  his  best,  and  that  first  rate,  and  at  the  same 
time  with  great  rapidity.  As  reading  makes  a  full  man, 
conversation  a  ready  man,  and  writing  a  correct  man,  he 
is  always  full,  ready,  and  correct,  and  the  words  flow  from 
his  pen  in  one  steady,  easy,  pellucid  stream.  He  rarely 
changes  a  word.  I  have  had  hundreds,  perhaps  thousands 
of  his  pages  of  manuscript  under  my  hands  for  publica- 
tion ;  they  were  the  first  draft,  and  very  rarely  was  the 
beauty  of  the  page  marred  by  an  erasure  or  emendation. 
He  began  his  great  work,  "  The  Annals  of  the  American 
Pulpit,"  ten  octavo  volumes,  when  he  was  fifty-seven  years 
old,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  duties  of  a  large  pastoral 
charge,  he  never  slighted  a  discourse,  and  once  or  twice 
a  year  he  visited  every  house  in  his  parish. 

Dr.  Griffin  was  one  of  the  most  eloquent  preachers  in 
the  American  pulpit.  Dr.  Sprague  edited  his  sermons 
and  wrote  his  biography.  Dr.  Griffin  was  the  exact  re- 
verse of  Dr.  Sprague  in  composition  :  writing  slowly,  and 
correcting  with  much  labor  and  care.  When  I  was  a  boy 
in  college  he  was  its  President,  and  my  puerile  composi- 
tions were  laid  upon  the  table  before  him,  while  he  without 
pity  blotted  them  with  a  broad-nibbed  pen,  until  there 
was  no  likeness  of  the  original  page  to  be  seen.  He  kept 
two  pens  at  hand,  one  to  strike  out  with,  the  other  to  re- 
store. "  The  great  art  in  criticism,"  he  would  say, "  is  to 
blot."  And  if  a  pet  curl  adorned  the  fair  face  of  my  es- 
say, he  without  remorse  and  with  apparent  pleasure  cut 
it  off  and  cast  it  from  me  as  if  it  were  an  offense.  The 
late  Dr.  Murray  (Kirwan),  whose  head  came  to  the  same 
block  before  mine,  has  left  his  testimony  to  the  value  of 


78  UNDER   THE    TREES. 

Dr.  Griffin's  butchery  as  a  critic  and  example  as  an  au- 
thor. "  Young  gentlemen,"  Dr.  Griffin  often  said  to  us, 
"learn  to  stop  when  you  are  done." 

Southey  was  a  rapid  writer,  but  found  that  what  he 
gained  in  time  he  lost  in  polish  and  correctness.  When 
one  of  his  poems  was  finished,  he  would  not  give  it  to  the 
printer,  but  wrote  :  "  I  am  polishing  and  polishing,  and 
hewing  it  to  pieces  with  surgeon  severity.  Yesterday  I 
drew  the  pen  across  six  hundred  lines."  And  again  he 
says :  "  It  is  long  since  I  have  been  a  rapid  writer ;  the 
care  with  which  I  write,  and  the  pains  which  I  take  in  col- 
lecting materials,  render  it  impossible  that  I  should  be  so." 

Dr.  Johnson  advised  every  young  man  beginning  to 
compose,  to  do  it  as  fast  as  he  could,  to  get  a  habit  of 
having  his  mind  start  promptly — "  so  much  more  difficult 
is  it  to  improve  in  speed  than  in  accuracy."  But  Dr. 
Johnson  was  one  of  the  most  unwise  wise  men  that  ever 
lived.  He  was  a  bundle  of  contradictions,  and  said  a 
great  many  things  for  the  sake  of  contradiction.  "  I 
would  say  to  a  young  divine,"  says  Dr.  Johnson,  " '  Here  is 
your  text ;  let  us  see  how  soon  you  can  make  a  sermon.' 
Then  I'd  say,  '  Let  me  see  how  much  better  you  can 
make  it.'  Thus  I  should  see  both  his  powers  and  his 
judgment." 

"Easy  writing  is  very  hard  reading."  And  it  is  the 
easy  reading,  that  which  gives  the  most  lasting  as  well  as 
immediate  pleasure,  to  the  reader,  which  has  cost  the 
writer  the  most  labor.  If  he  have  the  art  to  conceal  his 
art,  so  that  what  is  read  or  heard  with  the  greatest  delight 
seems  to  have  leaped  like  Minerva  from  the  brain  in  full 
dress  and  strength,  so  much  the  better ;  but  as  a  general 
rule  in  the  matter  of  writing,  as  in  all  other  of  the  works 
of  man,  that  which  costs  nothing  is  worth  nothing. 


AUTHORS.  79 

Milton's  "Lycidas"  was  rewritten  again  and  again;  his 
biographer  says  he  hovered  over  the  "rathe  primrose" 
passage  with  fastidious  fondness,  touching  every  color 
and  fitting  every  word  till  he  brought  it  to  its  present  per- 
fection of  beauty. 

The  fastidiousness  of  authorship  is  ridiculed  by  some, 
like  Cobbett,  who  said,  "  Never  think  of  what  you  write  ; 
let  it  go — no  patching."  And  Niebuhr's  rule  was,  "Try 
never  to  strike  out  any  part  of  what  you  have  once  writ- 
ten down."  But  such  advice  never  made  an  author  im- 
mortal. It  may  have  helped  him  to  sudden  fame,  and 
perhaps  fortune,  but  usefulness  and  the  "  monumentum 
aere  perennius,"  for  which  the  best  of  men  may  strive,  are 
not  to  be  achieved  without  patient  work,  painstaking — 
labor  limae ;  and  the  reward  is  worth  all  it  costs. 


XIV. 

DOGS. 

We  have  been  in  mourning,  if  not  in  tears  to-day.  My 
son  left  us  yesterday  to  go  to  Europe,  and  a  favorite  dog 
of  his,  a  little  fellow,  "took  on"  dreadfully  when  his  master 
went  away.  For  several  days,  while  preparations  for  the 
journey  were  in  progress,  the  dog  manifested  great  anx- 
iety, watching  the  packing  and  listening  to  the  conversa- 
tion with  evident  uneasiness.  The  day  of  departure 
came.  The  dog  was  shut  up  in  a  room  alone,  and  howled 
dolefully.  Night  came,  and  he  wandered  about  the  house, 
up  and  down  stairs — though  his  rug  was  lying  ready  for 
him  as  usual  by  his  master's  empty  bed.  He  had  dis- 
turbed me  in  the  early  part  of  the  night  by  his  whines  as 
he  sought  his  master  in  vain.  In  the  morning  I  went 
into  his  room,  and  found  him  asleep  on  his  rug.  He 
never  awoke  again.     The  dog  was  dead. 

After  breakfast  we  buried  him  under  the  trees,  and  a 
feeling  of  increased  loneliness  has  settled  on  the  house. 
We  miss  them  both,  and  the  thought  of  the  love  the  dog 
had  for  his  master — love  stronger  than  life — touches  us 
tenderly.  We  hope  to  see  the  son  return.  The  dog  had 
no  hope,  and  died. 

General  Webb  gave  a  little  dog  to  the  child  of  one  of 
our  neighbors,  a  friend  of  his.  The  child  and  the  dog 
became  tenderly  attached  to  each  other.  The  child  was 
taken  ill.     The  dog  lavished  its  affections  on  its  friend, 


DOGS.  8 1 

caressing  him  constantly,  and  showing  the  strongest  anx- 
iety. The  child  died.  The  dog  walked  away  from  the 
bed  to  the  other  side  of  the  room,  lay  down  and  died  also. 

My  father  had  a  small  and  beautiful  dog  who  rejoiced 
in  the  name  of  Fidelity.  He  differed  from  other  good 
dogs  only  in  being  better  than  others,  and  in  manifesting 
something  that  resembled  religious  sensibility,  or  a  pecul- 
iar attachment  to  religious  places,  people,  and  services. 
He  attended  family  worship  with  a  punctuality  and  regu- 
larity that  the  other  members  of  the  household  might  well 
have  imitated,  and  certainly  did  not  surpass.  If  a  stran- 
ger were  present — and  much  company  visited  our  house — 
the  dog's  attention  to  him  was  regulated  by  his  taking 
the  lead  or  not  in  the  religious  worship  of  the  household. 
If  the  visitor  at  my  father's  request  conducted  the  wor- 
ship, the  dog  at  once  attached  himself  to  his  person,  and 
when  he  departed  the  dog  escorted  him  out  of  the  vil- 
lage ;  sometimes  going  home  with  him  to  a  neighboring 
town,  and  making  him  a  visit  of  a  few  days.  If  the  visitor 
did  not  perform  any  religious  service  in  the  house,  the 
dog  took  no  notice  of  him  while  there,  and  suffered  him 
to  depart  unattended  and  evidently  unregretted. 

Such  a  dog  was,  of  course,  an  habitual  attendant  on  the 
public  services  of  the  church  on  the  Sabbath.  It  re- 
quired extraordinary  care  to  keep  him  at  home.  Shut  up 
in  a  room,  he  dashed  through  a  window  and  was  at  church 
before  the  family.  He  was  once  shut  up  in  an  outhouse 
that  had  no  floor.  He  dug  out  under  the  sill  of  the  door, 
and  was  at  church  before  the  first  psalm  was  sung.  In 
church  he  occupied  the  upper  step  of  the  pulpit  within 
which  his  master  ministered.  He  lay  quiet  during  the 
service  unless  other  dogs  below  misbehaved,  in  which 
case  he  left  his  seat,  and  after  quieting  the  disturbance 

F 


82  UNDER   THE    TREES. 

resumed  it.  He  was  equally  devoted  to  the  weekly 
prayer-meeting  which  was  held  from  house  to  house,  the 
appointment  being  announced  on  the  Sabbath.  He  re- 
membered the  evening  and  the  place,  and  was  always 
present.  As  it  was  not  agreeable  to  have  a  dog  at  an 
evening  meeting  in  a  private  house,  he  was  confined  at 
home.  The  next  week  he  went  early,  before  the  family 
had  thought  to  shut  him  up,  and  waited  for  the  hour  and 
the  people.  He  knew  the  names  of  the  families  where 
the  meetings  were  held,  and  where  they  lived,  and  could 
have  gone  to  any  one  of  them  on  an  errand  as  easily  and 
correctly  as  a  child.  And  the  only  knowledge  he  had  of 
the  place  of  meeting  he  got  as  the  others  did,  by  hearing 
the  notice  on  Sunday.  These  habits  of  the  dog  were  not 
the  fruit  of  education.  On  the  contrary,  pains  were  taken 
to  prevent  him  from  indulging  his  religious  preferences. 
He  did  not  manifest  a  fondness  for  other  meetings,  or  for 
any  individuals  out  of  the  family  circle  except  those 
whom  he  recognized  by  their  habit  of  praying,  as  the  peo- 
ple in  whom  he  was  especially  interested. 

My  father  was  wont  to  relate  many  other  anecdotes  of 
this  remarkable  animal,  and  the  relation  of  them  always 
caused  his  eyes  to  fill  with  tears.  He  had  a  strong  im- 
pression that  there  was  something  very  mysterious  about 
this  propensity  of  the  dog,  and  being  himself  a  sternly 
orthodox  divine,  he  never  ventured  to  express  the  opinion 
that  the  dog  had  moral  perceptions.  But  I  always  thought 
he  believed  so. 

I  have  heard  and  read  many  stories  of  dogs  that  go 
to  show  a  moral  sense.  Dr.  Guthrie,  the  great  Scotch 
preacher,  relates  some  incidents  in  the  life  of  his  dog 
Bob: 

"  Though  but  a  dumb  companion  and  friend,"  he  says, 


DOGS.  83 

"  1  must  devote  a  few  lines  to  the  memory  and  affection 
and  sense  of  my  dog  Bob,  who,  lying  often  at  the  head 
of  the  pulpit  stairs,  occupied  a  place  on  Sundays  nearly 
as  conspicuous  as  myself.  He  was  a  magnificent  Scotch 
dog  of  great  size,  brave  as,  or  rather  braver  than  a  lion. 
He  expressed  his  respect  for  decent  and  well-conditioned 
visitors  by  rushing  to  the  gate  as  if  he  were  bent  on  de- 
vouring them,  and  gave  them  a  welcome  both  with  tail 
and  tongue.  Beggars,  and  all  such  characters,  he  wasted 
no  wind  on ;  but,  maintaining  an  ominous  silence,  stuck 
close  to  their  heels,  showing  a  beautiful  set  of  teeth,  and 
occasionally  using  them  ;  only,  however,  to  warn  the  gang- 
rels  to  be  on  their  behavior. 

"  He  had  but  one  bad  habit  when  I  had  him— to  see  a 
cat  was  to  fly  at  it.  This  ended  in  his  worrying  to  death 
a  favorite  grimalkin  belonging  to  a  neighbor,  and  the  ca- 
tastrophe raised  a  formidable  commotion.  I  saw  that  I 
must  part  with  Bob  or  impair  my  usefulness ;  so,  with 
many  regrets,  I  sent  him  to  Brechin,  fifteen  miles  off. 

"  There,  early  on  the  following  Sunday  morning,  Bob 
was  observed,  with  head  and  tail  erect  and  a  resolute 
purpose  in  every  look  and  movement,  taking  his  way  from 
my  brother's  house.  My  brother's  wife,  struck  with  his 
air,  said  to  one  of  her  daughters,  who  laughed  at  the  idea, 
'  There  is  Bob,  and  I'll  wager  he  is  off  to  Arbirlot !' 
Whether  he  had  kept  the  road,  or  gone  by  some  myste- 
rious path  across  the  country  straight  as  the  crow  flies,  I 
know  not ;  but  when  I  was  leaving  the  church,  about  one 
o'clock,  I  was  met  by  the  beadle,  with  his  old  face  lighted 
up  with  an  unusual  expression  of  glee,  and  exclaiming — 
for  my  dog  and  Johnny  had  been  always  fast  friends — 
'You  manna  put  him  awa',  minister,  though  he  should 
worry  a'  the  cats  in  the  parish !' 


84  UNDER    THE   TREES. 

"  On  going  to  the  manse,  I  found  Bob  outside  the  gate, 
as  flat,  prostrate,  and  motionless  as  if  he  had  been  stone 
dead.  It  was  plain  he  knew  as  well  as  I  did  that  he  had 
been  banished,  and  had  returned  without  leave,  and  was 
liable  to  be  hanged,  drowned,  shot,  or  otherwise  punished 
at  my  will.  I  went  up  to  him,  and  stood  over  him  for  a 
while  in  ominous  silence.  No  wagging  of  his  tail,  or 
movement  in  any  limb ;  but  there  he  lay,  as  if  he  had  been 
killed  and  flattened  by  a  heavy  roller,  only  that,  with  his 
large,  beautiful  eyes  half  shut,  he  kept  winking  and  look- 
ing up  in  my  face  with  a  most  pitiful  and  penitent  and 
pleading  expression  in  his  own. 

"  Though  I  might  not  go  the  length  of  old  Johnny 
Bowman  in  making  free  of  all  the  cats  in  the  parish,  there 
was  no  resisting  the  dumb  but  eloquent  appeal.  I  gave 
way,  and  exclaimed  in  cheerful  tones, '  Is  this  you,  Bob  ?' 
In  an  instant,  knowing  that  he  was  forgiven  and  restored, 
he  rose  at  one  mighty  bound  into  the  air,  circling  round 
and  round  me,  and  ever  and  anon,  in  the  power  and  full- 
ness of  his  joy,  leaping  nearly  over  my  head. 

"What  his  ideas  of  right  and  wrong  were  I  dare  not 
say,  but  he  certainly  had  a  sense  of  shame,  and  apparent- 
ly also  of  guilt.  Once,  for  example — and  the  only  occa- 
sion on  which  we  knew  him  to  steal — Mrs.  Guthrie  came 
unexpectedly  on  Bob  sneaking  out  of  the  kitchen  with  a 
sheep's  head  between  his  teeth.  His  jail-like  and  timor- 
ous look  displayed  conscious  guilt ;  and  still  more,  before 
she  had  time  to  speak  a  word,  what  he  did.  The  mo- 
ment he  saw  her,  as  if  struck  with  paralysis,  he  drops  the 
sheep's  head  on  the  floor,  and,  with  his  tail  between  his 
legs,  makes  off  with  all  haste,  not  to  escape  a  beating,  for 
she  never  ventured  on  that,  but  to  hide  his  shame." 

P.  G.  Hamerton  is  an  English  author  of  fine  taste  and 


DOGS.  85 

accomplishments,  who  discusses  the  subject  of  intellect 
in  dumb  animals  with  much  ability  and  fine  illustration. 
Some  very  able  papers  have  recently  appeared  in  foreign 
reviews  on  the  same  question.  Mr.  Hamerton  has  a  paper 
on  dogs,  which  he  prefaces  with  a  note :  "There  is  so  much 
in  this  paper  which  must  naturally  seem  incredible;"  and 
then  he  pledges  "his  honor"  for  the  truth  of  what  he 
tells.  He  then  gives  a  detailed  account  of  two  perform- 
ing dogs  that  had  been  trained  by  a  man  who  had  been 
a  teacher  in  a  deaf  and  dumb  institution,  and  had  thus 
been  led  to  inquire  how  far  similar  education  might  reach 
the  intelligence  of  dogs.  These  dogs  would  spell  any 
common  word  proposed  to  them  •  would  give  the  plural 
of  a  word  when  the  singular  was  proposed.  They  would 
give  the  French  for  any  English  or  German  word  in  which 
the  same  letter  did  not  occur  twice ;  they  would  detect 
an  error  in  any  word  spelled  incorrectly,  and  point  out 
the  wrong  letter,  and  bring  the  right  one  to  go  in  its  place ; 
and  questions  in  mental  arithmetic  were  solved  with  cor- 
rectness. The  master  left  the  room,  and  Mr.  Hamerton 
proposed  questions  which  were  promptly  answered  by 
the  dogs.  The  two  dogs  played  a  game  of  dominoes;  and 
when  unable  to  match,  drew  from  the  bank  with  great  re- 
luctance and  went  on. 

The  Rev.  Dr.  Wickam,  of  Manchester,  Vermont,  has 
told  me  of  a  dog  which  belongs  to  a  good  deacon  of 
that  place. 

"At  the  stroke  of  the  bell  each  Sabbath  morning,  unless 
forcibly  restrained,  this  dog  would  hasten  with  all  speed 
to  the  church,  and  take  his  position  on  the  broad  stair  of 
the  steps  ascending  to  the  pulpit,  and  there  recline  at  his 
ease,  remaining  quiet  during  the  public  service.  By  the 
kind  sufferance  of  the  minister  who  then  occupied  the 


86  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

pulpit,  he  was  never  disturbed.  But  on  the  accession  of 
another  to  the  pastorate,  to  whom  the  proximity  of  this 
animal  was  unwelcome,  he  was  once  and  again  dislodged 
by  a  kick  from  his  position  as  the  minister  ascended  the 
pulpit  stairs.  Upon  the  repetition  of  this  indignity  he 
came  no  more,  but  regularly  as  the  Sabbath  returned 
passed  by  the  door  of  the  church  he  had  attended  to  an- 
other of  a  different  denomination  nearly  two  miles  dis- 
tant from  the  former.  He  continued  to  do  this  for  the 
space  of  nearly  three  years.  At  the  end  of  that  time,  on 
the  accession  of  a  new  minister,  he  was  seen  in  his  old 
position  on  the  pulpit  stairs.  Being  undisturbed,  though 
his  church-going  habit  remained,  he  went  no  more  to  the 
distant  church  ;  but  for  the  residue  of  his  short  life  punc- 
tually attended  where  he  had  done  before,  and  where  his 
owner  and  family  were  stated  worshipers." 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Buckingham,  of  Ohio,  is  my  authority  for 
the  following : 

"  A  few  days  after  my  third  child  was  born  (July,  1845), 
a  little  boy  brought  as  a  present  to  the  child  a  black 
puppy.  As  he  grew  he  became  exceedingly  playful,  full 
of  fun  and  life,  barking  at  every  thing  and  every  person 
that  came  about  the  house.  A  mutual  attachment  was 
formed  between  the  dog  and  the  child.  At  nine  months 
of  age  the  child  was  taken  with  spasms.  As  soon  as 
'Coly'  (that  was  the  name  we  gave  the  dog)  knew  that 
the  child  was  sick,  his  whole  demeanor  changed.  He 
seemed  sad,  would  not  eat  as  usual,  and  ceased  to  notice 
those  who  came  to  the  house.  We  never  heard  him  bark 
after  he  knew  the  child  was  sick.  During  the  sickness 
of  the  child  (about  forty-eight  hours)  he  often  came  into 
the  room  where  she  was  lying,  would  go  to  the  cradle, 
and,  putting  his  front  paws  upon  the  side  of  the  cradle, 


DOGS.  87 

look  over  into  her  face  with  the  deepest  interest,  and  then 
go  out  and  lie  down  upon  his  rug  at  the  door  sorrowful. 
When  the  child  died  and  was  dressed  for  the  grave, '  Coly ' 
came  into  the  bedroom,  licked  the  cold  face  of  the  child, 
and  then  went  out,  lay  down  in  the  corn-crib,  refused  to 
eat  or  drink,  and  in  a  few  hours  I  found  him  dead. 

"In  the  fall  of  1836  I  started  from  my  father's,  in  New- 
ark, Ohio,  to  go  to  Circleville  and  Chillicothe — to  Circle- 
ville  on  a  courting  expedition,  and  to  Chillicothe  to  preach 
in  the  First  Presbyterian  Church.  My  father  had  a  large 
yellow  dog,  who  persisted  in  making  the  trip  with  me.  I 
reached  Chillicothe  on  Saturday  afternoon,  and  put  up  at 
a  hotel.  Sabbath  morning,  fearing  that  my  dog  would 
follow  me  to  the  church,  I  requested  the  landlord  to  shut 
him  up.  He  was  confined  in  an  outhouse.  At  tea-time 
he  was  safe,  but  when  I  returned  to  the  hotel  after  the 
evening  services  I  found  the  dog  gone.  I  saw  no  more 
of  him  until  my  return  to  my  father's,  where  I  found  him. 
On  inquiry,  I  learned  that  he  was  found  in  the  stalls  on 
Monday  morning,  the  day  after  he  escaped  from  the  hotel 
in  Chillicothe.  The  distance  between  the  two  places  is 
some  seventy  miles." 

A  Virginia  gentleman  tells  me  of  three  remarkable  dogs : 
"In  1850  odd  my  brother  (still  living  in  New  Orleans) 
was  a  lieutenant  in  the  United  States  Army,  stationed  at 
one  of  the  forts  in  Boston  Harbor.  He  was  presented  by 
the  captain  of  a  coaster,  trading  at  that  port,  with  two 
dogs — one  a  bull -terrier,  named  Dinky,  and  the  other  a 
beautiful  Newfoundland  (or  Nova  Scotian)  dog,  which 
he  named  Junot,  after  the  French  marshal.  Some  one 
else  presented  him  with  a  splendid  mastiff,  which  he 
named  Duroc,  after  another  of  the  marshals.  During  a 
leave  of  absence,  he  brought  these  three  dogs  with  him  to 


88  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

Richmond,  Virginia,  where  his  father  and  a  large  family 
resided.  Dinky  was  milk  white  all  over,  and  though 
beautifully  made  as  to  his  body  and  limbs,  could  not  be 
considered  handsome  about  the  face  and  head  —  a  de- 
ficiency of  beauty  common  to  his  tribe.  When  Dinky 
was  presented  to  my  brother,  he  had  just  emerged  from 
a  mortal  combat  with  a  dog  much  larger  than  himself, 
in  the  course  of  which  his  side  was  torn  open.  The 
captain  was  much  attached  to  him  ;  but  despairing  of  his 
life,  and  landing  at  the  wharf  of  the  fort,  parted  with  him 
to  my  brother  on  condition  that  he  saved  his  life.  He 
carried  him  in  and  invoked  the  services  of  the  surgeon 
of  the  fort  (Dr.  Murray,  I  believe).  Dinky  was  laid  on 
the  operating  table,  his  wounds  dressed,,  and  his  side 
sewed  up.  Though  he  suffered  greatly  from  the  opera- 
tion, he  seemed  to  appreciate  it,  and  endured  it  both 
patiently  and,  apparently,  gratefully.  In  due  time  he  re- 
covered, but  he  never  became  a  Quaker.  His  belligerency 
was  universal.  He  fought  bulls,  boars,  dogs,  snakes,  bees, 
wasps,  hornets,  the  streams  of  water  from  fire-engines,  or 
any  thing  else  that  came  to  hand,  without  the  slightest 
regard  to  odds.  It  was  the  most  irresistibly  laughable 
thing  to  see  him  surrounded  by  bees,  wasps,  or  hornets — 
his  eyes  blazing,  his  jaws  snapping  like  castanets  perpet- 
ually ;  and,  though  stung  all  over,  indomitably  standing 
his  ground,  until  the  spectators  would  leave  and  call  him 
away  for  his  own  sake.  He  would  then  consider  the  bat- 
tle ended  ;  otherwise  he  seemed  always  to  prefer  death  to 
defeat.  In  the  course  of  his  life  he  killed,  as  I  have  been 
told,  several  dogs  with  which  he  engaged  in  casual  fights, 
and  he  himself  was  often  in  the  hands  of  the  surgeon  ; 
but  he  was  never,  to  my  knowledge,  engaged  in  a  dog-pit 
or  the  like.     And  yet  with  all  this,  his  affection  for  his 


DOGS.  89 

human  friends,  who  treated  him  kindly,  and  for  Junot 
alone,  of  the  dog  kind,  was  enthusiastic,  and  sometimes 
even  affecting.  In  truth,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  he 
was  the  most  fascinating  dog  I  ever  saw.  So  much  for 
Dinky. . 

"  But  Junot,  what  shall  I  say  of  him  ?  With  long,  silky, 
curly  blue -black  hair,  with  a  noble  head,  out  of  which 
looked  soft,  chestnut-brown  eyes — brave,  dignified,  affec- 
tionate, intelligent,  and  accomplished — he  was  the  peer 
of  any  dog.  His  accomplishments  were  numerous.  He 
would  shut  the  door ;  ring  the  bell ;  bring  his  tail  in  his 
mouth,  turning  in  a  circle  as  he  came ;  hold  a  piece  of 
savory  meat  on  his  nose  when  he  was  hungry,  with  his 
mouth  watering,  until  the  word  of  command,  when  he 
would  throw  it  up  and  catch  it ;  sit  in  a  chair,  etc.,  and 
all  this  without  signs,  but  merely  at  command.  He  would 
dive  off  a  wharf  into  deep  water,  the  end  of  his  tail  wav- 
ing a  moment  above  the  water  as  he  disappeared,  and 
bring  up  any  thing  thrown  in,  amid  the  shouts  of  specta- 
tors, who  were  always  attracted  by  his  performances. 
He  would  find  any  thing  you  had  lost.  He  would  bring 
slippers,  gloves,  clothes-brushes,  etc.,  from  the  chambers 
to  the  dining-room  or  parlor  when  ordered. 

"On  one  occasion,  a  young  lady  on  a  visit  at  my 
father's  attended  an  evening  party.  It  was  her  first 
party.  She  was  adorned  with  the  jewelry  of  a  married 
lady  in  the  house.  On  her  return  from  the  party  late  at 
night,  in  the  midst  of  relating  the  novel  pleasure  she  had 
enjoyed,  she  suddenly  paled,  and  putting  her  hand  on  her 
arm,  said, '  There  !  I  have  lost  one  of  the  bracelets.'  She 
had  walked  home.  I  inquired  the  route  by  which  she  had 
come,  and  taking  the  other  bracelet,  showed  it  to  Junot. 
He  was  eager  for  the  hunt.     It  was  so  dark  that  I  could 


go  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

scarcely  see  my  hand  before  me — but  Junot  found  the 
bracelet. 

"  He  formed  the  most  devoted  attachment  to  my  father. 
During  his  last  illness,  he  insisted  on  being  in  his  room, 
and  would  furiously  resent  any  attempt  to  remove  him, 
uttering  low  growls  of  deep  meaning.  I  alone  could 
remove  him  with  safety,  though  with  difficulty.  While 
in  the  room,  he  would  from  time  to  time  stand  by  my 
father's  bed  with  yearning  affection  and  interest,  and  oc- 
casionally lick  his  hand.  The  family  never  thought  him 
like  himself  after  my  father's  death. 

"  But  Duroc  furnished  an  instance  of  canine  reasoning 
which,  if  it  differ  from  that  of  our  superior  race  in  de- 
gree, can  not  be  distinguished  from  it,  by  me  at  least,  in 
quality.  When  he  was  brought  to  Richmond  by  my 
brother,  he  was  just  grown.  His  proportions  were  ma- 
jestic, and  he  was  very  amiable.  Not  long  after,  there 
was  a  clustering  of  the  scattered  members  around  the  old 
family  altar.  Junot  was  privileged,  and  always  had  the 
run  of  the  house.  Dinky  and  Duroc  were  under  greater 
restrictions.  But  on  this  occasion  Duroc  participated  in 
the  general  festivities,  and  followed  Junot  about  among 
the  family.  Junot  had  been  repeatedly  sent  into  the 
chambers  of  the  young  men,  and  had  as  often  brought 
something  or  other — hat,  slippers,  clothes-brush,  etc.  Du- 
roc had  watched  him  for  some  time  with  glistening  eyes, 
tail  erect,  and  a  bark  which  indicated  good-natured  rivalry. 
But  little  notice  had  been  taken  of  him,  while  Junot  had 
been  covered  with  caresses  and  applause  at  each  of  his 
successes.  At  last  Duroc  marched  off,  and  returned  with- 
head  erect — thrilling  all  over  with  the  pride  of  conscious 
triumph — and  with  a  tooth-brush  in  his  mouth,  the  brush 
end  on  his  tongue  !     He  received  what  he  had  fairly  won 


DOGS.  91 

— unstinted  praise.    He  had  never  been  taught  any  thing. 
Now  was  this  reason  or  not  ?" 

Did  you  ever  inquire  into  the  meaning  of  that  question 
of  God  in  his  Word,  "  Who  knoweth  the  spirit  of  man  that 
goeth  upward,  and  the  spirit  of  the  beast  that  goeth  down- 
ward to  the  earth  ?"  Does  upward  mean  immortality, 
and  downward  destruction?  Is  the  spirit  of  man  the 
breath  of  the  Almighty,  and  is  the  spirit  of  the  beast  his 
creation,  to  have  an  end  with  all  else  that  has  a  begin- 
ning? 


XV. 

THE  ADIRONDACKS. 

Leaving  these  trees,  I  have  been  in  the  deeper  shades 
of  the  Adirondacks.  One  night  on  the  river  and  half  a 
day  by  rail  brought  me  to  Glenn's  Falls. 

Here  we  mount  four-horse  stages,  each  of  which  stages 
was  loaded  with  about  twenty  passengers,  outside  and  in, 
and  set  out  for  Lake  George.  At  the  Half-Way  House 
we  stop  to  water  the  horses,  and  the  landlord  graciously 
recounts  to  the  passengers  the  names  of  the  drinks  he 
would  gladly  furnish  them.  Milk-punch  is  the  favorite 
beverage,  the  ladies  expressing  their  delight  in  drinking 
it,  the  gentlemen  saying  there  was  a  great  deal  of  milk  in 
it  with  very  little  rum. 

The  scenery  on  the  ride  to  the  lake  is  fine,  and  every 
moment  enjoyable.  It  becomes  wilder  and  more  pictur- 
esque as  we  approach,  and  at  noon  we  are  pleasantly  de- 
posited at  the  hotel.  For  quiet  beauty,  without  the  mag- 
nificence of  some  of  the  Swiss  lakes,  this  Lake  George  is 
unsurpassed.  As  I  sat  upon  the  piazza  and  looked  out 
upon  its  placid  waters,  its  many  isles,  the  mountains  gen- 
tly rising  from  its  very  shores,  in  the  far  distance  the 
domes  of  many  hills  like  temples  touching  the  bending 
skies,  I  readily  believed  that  a  lovelier  lake  could  not  be 
found. 

Near  by  sat  a  small  party  bewailing  the  loss  of  a  trunk. 
Two  young  ladies  and  their  aged  mother,  or  grandmother, 


THE    ADIRONDACKS.  93 

were  the  sufferers.  It  was  the  old  lady's  trunk  that  was 
missing,  and  she  refused  to  be  comforted  even  when 
told  of  another  good  old  woman  who  had  met  with  a 
similar  loss,  and  who  was  heard  to  exclaim,  "  I  shall 
never  see  that  trunk  again — at  least,  not  in  this  world !" 
A  young  man  came  out  of  the  telegraph  office,  and  hav- 
ing taken  from  the  young  ladies  a  description  of  the 
lost  trunk,  assured  them  he  would  try  to  look  it  up  by 
asking  for  it  at  the  different  stations  on  the  route  from 
Albany  to  the  lake.  In  half  an  hour  he  sent  word  to  the 
young  ladies  that  the  trunk  was  at  Fort  Edward,  and 
would  come  up  on  the  next  stage.  Their  delight  was 
beautiful  to  see.  "  Go,  thank  him,"  said  one  of  them  to 
her  fair  sister,  who  rose  to  go  for  the  purpose ;  "  thank 
him ;  smile  on  him — beam  on  him  !" — which  she  fondly 
imagined  would  be  the  young  man's  highest  reward. 

In  the  far  North  huge  and  fearful  clouds  gathered,  and 
out  of  them  fierce  lightnings  gleamed,  as  if  the  prince  of 
the  power  of  the  air  were  marshaling  his  forces  for  battle. 
The  distant  roar  of  thunder  was  like  "  the  footsteps  of 
the  dreadful  God,  marching  upon  the  storm  in  vengeance." 
A  week  afterward,  in  the  wilderness  of  the  Adirondacks, 
I  passed  the  ruins  of  a  mighty  pine-tree  shivered  by  light- 
ning, and  the  guide  told  me  that  it  was  struck  in  the  after- 
noon of  the  Friday  previous ;  being  the  very  storm  that 
had  traveled  down  till  it  burst  upon  us  on  the  piazza  of 
the  hotel,  a  hundred  miles  south  of  the  spot  where  the  big 
pine  was  shattered. 

On  the  loveliest  lake,  on  the  morning  of  the  loveliest 
day.  It  was  cool  and  bright ;  the  mists  still  clung  to  the 
mountain  sides,  but  the  sun  was  pouring  his  golden  rays 
upon  them,  and  they  were  absorbed  in  the  glory  of  his 
coming. 


94  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

Islands,  at  least  three  hundred  and  sixty-five,  bestud 
this  lake.  Its  waters  are  translucent  to  a  great  depth.  Its 
shores  are  lined  with  wooded  hills,  and  in  sunny  nooks 
peaceful  hamlets  and  frequent  villas  are  nestling.  Thirty- 
six  miles  long  is  this  charming  lake,  one  stretch  of  beauty 
from  shore  to  shore.  When  the  lower,  that  is  the  north- 
ern end  is  reached,  we  find  stages  waiting  to  transport  us 
four  miles  overland  to  Lake  Champlain.  This  stage 
ride  is  a  great  feature  in  the  journey.  Outside  seats  are 
reserved  for  those  who  get  them  first,  and  a  general  scram- 
ble ensues,  in  which  ladies  are  the  most  vigorous  and  suc- 
cessful. Four  or  five  stages,  carrying  twenty  passengers 
each,  are  filled.  Half  way  across  we  pass  an  extensive 
building  with  a  large  sign  upon  it,  "  Graphic  Lead  Fac- 
tory," where  pencil  lead  is  made.  One  man  sitting  be- 
hind me  said  to  another — 

"  What  is  it  that  is  made  there  ?" 

"  Plumbago,"  was  the  answer. 

"  Plumbago !"  exclaimed  the  other ;  "  I  thought  that 
was  something  the  matter  of  your  back."  He  had  prob- 
ably suffered  with  lumbago  in  his  time. 

The  manager  of  this  stage  line  goes  with  every  excur- 
sion, and  as  the  stages  arrive  at  the  ruins  of  Fort  Ticon- 
deroga,  he  calls  the  whole  procession  to  a  halt,  dismounts, 
and,  taking  a  stand  by  the  roadside,  makes  an  oration  to 
the  listening  and  greatly  amused  passengers.  On  this 
occasion  he  was  very  eloquent.  He  drew  a  glowing  pict- 
ure of  the  scenes  that  had  made  this  spot  memorable  in 
the  history  of  man.  The  blood  of  warriors,  savage  and 
civilized,  had  consecrated  the  soil ;  Abercrombie  and 
Montcalm,  Ethan  Allen  and  Arnold,  had  been  made  im- 
mortal by  their  deeds  on  the  ground  we  now  survey ;  and, 
waxing  magniloquent  as  he  swayed  his  arms  like  a  wind- 


THE   ADIRONDACKS.  95 

mill,  he  pointed  to  the  future  of  this  great  country,  and 
exclaimed:  "The  glorious  bird  of  Freedom,  his  beak  a 
bill  of  rights,  and  his  claws  just  laws,  shall  spread  his 
wings  from  the  coast  that  is  gilded  with  the  rising  sun  to 
the  western  shore,  whose  waves  are  amber  and  whose 
sands  are  gold." 

Bowing  low  to  the  applauding  company,  he  resumed 
the  reins,  and  in  a  few  moments  we  passed  the  old  fort 
and  were  on  the  banks  of  another  and  noble  water. 
From  the  quiet  beauty  of  Lake  George,  we  came  upon 
the  broader  and  more  magnificent  Lake  Champlain.  On 
the  eastern  shore,  away  under  the  horizon,  lie  the  Green 
Mountains  of  Vermont,  and  the  loftier  peaks  of  the  Adi- 
rondacks  support  the  western  sky.  Large  islands  often 
rise  before  us,  and  their  names  are  identified  with  impor- 
tant events  in  the  history  of  the  country. 

I  landed  at  Port  Kent.  This  has  long  been  the  grand 
port  of  entry  to  the  wilderness.  The  railroad  from  Platts- 
burg  now  makes  that  point  the  more  desirable  place  to 
land.  At  Port  Kent  is  the  residence  of  Winslow  C.  Wat- 
son, Esq.  His  father  was  Elkanah  Watson,  of  Revolution- 
ary memory,  born  in  Plymouth,  Mass.,  of  the  Winslow 
family,  whose  stock  was  in  the  Mayflower.  He  was  in 
France  during  a  large  part  of  the  war  of  the  Revolution, 
in  active  co-operation  and  correspondence  with  all  our 
great  statesmen  of  that  day.  He  came  to  the  State  of 
New  York  after  the  war,  and  entered  ardently  into 
schemes  of  internal  improvement  to  develop  the  resources 
of  the  country.  His  sagacious  mind  was  the  first  to  con- 
ceive the  grand  idea  of  uniting  Lake  Erie  and  the  Hud- 
son River  by  canal,  and  he  lived  to  see  it  done,  though, 
as  in  many  other  instances,  the  credit  of  the  invention 
has  been  generally  given  to  another.     He  bought  vast 


gG  UNDER   THE    TREES. 

tracts  of  land  on  Lake  Champlain,  and  settled  at  Port 
Kent,  having  in  his  mind  the  splendid  conception  of  unit- 
ing the  lakes  of  the  Adirondack  region  with  each  other 
and  then  with  Lake  Champlain,  so  that  four  hundred 
miles  of  interior  water  communication  would  be  opened 
up  through  a  region  whose  mineral  wealth  and  lumber 
are  incalculably  valuable. 

His  son,  Winslow  C.  Watson,  settled  in  Plattsburg 
when  he  was  twenty-one  years  of  age,  and  has  acquired 
great  distinction  in  the  field  of  law,  politics,  history,  and 
literature. 

Such  a  man  (I  have  enjoyed  his  friendship  nearly  forty 
years)  met  me  at  the  landing,  in  the  midst  of  a  pouring 
rain,  and  in  a  few  moments  I  was  by  a  cheerful  fire  on 
the  third  day  of  August  in  his  hospitable  house,  in  the 
midst  of  his  delightful  family.  His  house  is  on  a  bluff, 
overlooking  the  lake  at  its  widest  part.  It  is  fifteen  miles 
to  the  Vermont  shore,  in  a  bay  before  us ;  but  the  city  of 
Burlington  is  only  ten  miles  off,  its  spires  and  towers  in  full 
view.  To  the  south,  as  far  as  the  eye  sees,  lies  the  broad 
lake  and  the  Green  Mountain  range,  with  Mount  Mans- 
field and  the  Camel's  Hump  towering  high  above  all  the 
rest.  I  enjoyed  a  few  days  in  such  a  spot,  with  books 
and  friends,  by  the  wells  of  philosophy  and  history,  while 
the  waters  of  the  lake  and  the  silent  majesty  of  the  mount- 
ains were  speaking  constantly  to  the  soul ;  a  wild,  roman- 
tic, and  exciting  region  of  country  near,  and  inviting  me 
to  explore  its  mysteries. 

Within  two  and  a  half  miles  of  Port  Kent,  on  the  way 
to  Keeseville  and  the  Adirondacks,  is  the  most  wonderful 
chasm  or  gorge  that  is  to  be  found  in  North  America. 
Such  freaks  or  works  of  nature  are  not  unknown  in  Scot- 
land and  Switzerland,  but  I  do  not  know  of  any  thing  like 
this  in  our  country. 


THE   ADIRONDACKS.  97 

"  The  passage  of  the  Au  Sable  River  along  its  lofty  and 
perpendicular  banks  and  through  the  chasm  at  the  high 
bridge  is  more  familiar  to  the  public  mind  than  most  of 
the  striking  and  picturesque  features  of  that  romantic 
stream.  The  continued  and  gradual  force  of  the  current, 
aided  perhaps  by  some  vast  effort  of  nature,  has  formed 
a  passage  of  the  river  through  the  deep  layers  of  sand- 
stone rock,  which  are  boldly  developed  above  the  village 
of  Keeseville,  and  form  the  embankment  of  the  river,  un- 
til it  reaches  the  quiet  basin  below  the  high  bridge.  In 
the  vicinity  of  Keeseville,  the  passage  of  the  stream  is 
between  a  wall  of  fifty  feet  in  height  on  either  side ;  leav- 
ing these,  the  river  glides  gently  along  a  low  valley,  until 
suddenly  hurled  over  a  precipice,  making  a  fall  of  singu- 
lar beauty.  Foaming  and  surging  from  this  point  over  a 
rocky  bed  until  it  reaches  the  village  of  Birmingham,  it 
there  abruptly  bursts  into  a  dark,  deep  chasm  of  sixty 
feet.  A  bridge,  with  one  abutment  upon  a  rock  that  di- 
vides the  stream,  crosses  the  river  at  the  head  of  the  fall. 
This  bridge  is  perpetually  enveloped  in  a  thick  cloud  of 
spray  and  mist.  In  winter  the  frost:work  incrusts  the 
rocks  and  trees  with  the  most  gorgeous  fabrics :  myriads 
of  columns  and  arches  and  icy  diamonds  and  stalactites 
glitter  in  the  sunbeams.  In  the  sunshine  a  brilliant  rain- 
bow spreads  its  arc  over  this  deep  abyss.  All  these  ele- 
ments, rare  in  their  combination,  shed  upon  this  scene  an 
effect  inexpressibly  wild,  picturesque,  and  beautiful.  The 
river  plunges  from  the  latter  precipice  amid  the  embra- 
sures of  the  vast  gulf,  in  which  for  nearly  a  mile  it  is  quite 
hidden  to  observation  from  above.  It  pours  in  a  wild 
torrent,  now  along  a  natural  canal,  formed  in  the  rocks  in 
almost  perfect  and  exact  courses,  and  now  darts  madly 
down  a  precipice.     The  wall  rises  on  a  vertical  face  upon 

G 


98  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

each  side  from  seventy-five  to  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet, 
while  the  width  of  the  chasm  rarely  exceeds  thirty  feet, 
and  at  several  points  the  stupendous  masonry  of  the  op- 
posite walls  approaches  within  eight  or  ten  feet.  Lateral 
fissures,  deep  and  narrow,  project  from  the  main  ravine  at 
nearly  right  angles.  The  abyss  is  reached  through  one 
of  these  crevices  by  a  stairway  descending  to  the  water 
by  two  hundred  and  twelve  steps.  The  entire  mass  of 
these  walls  is  formed  of  laminae  of  sandstone  rock,  laid  in 
regular  and  precise  structures,  almost  rivaling  the  most 
accurate  artificial  work.  The  pines  and  cedars,  starting 
from  the  apertures  of  the  wall,  spread  a  dark  canopy  over 
the  gulf.  The  instrumentality  which  has  produced  this 
wonderful  work  is  a  problem  that  presents  a  wide  scope 
for  interesting  but  unsatisfactory  speculation. 

"  At  the  foot  of  the  stairway  is  a  platform,  separated 
by  a  narrow,  deep  chasm  from  what  is  called  the  Table 
Rock.  Through  this  passage  the  river,  compressed  into 
a  deep  and  limited  channel,  rushes  with  the  impetuosity 
of  a  mill-race.  .The  Table  Rock  was  formerly  reached 
by  walking  upon  a  log  over  the  chasm,  and  was  a  favorite 
but  somewhat  dangerous  resort  of  picnic  parties,  until  a 
tragic  event  arrested  the  habit.  A  Mr.  Dyer,  an  Epis-' 
copal  minister,  was,  some  years  ago,  in  the  act  of  leading 
a  lady  across  this  log,  when,  suddenly  losing  his  balance, 
he  fell  into  the  rushing  torrent,  and  never  rose  to  the  sur- 
face, nor  was  his  body  seen  by  the  horror-stricken  spec- 
tators until  days  afterward,  when  it  was  found  far  below 
upon  a  shallow  in  the  river." 

Coming  up  out  of  the  chasm,  awed  by  the  grandeur  and 
majesty  of  this  mighty  cleft  in  the  rocks,  an  agreeable 
surprise  awaited  us.  The  ladies  of  Port  Kent  had  come 
out  to  this  romantic  spot,  and  in  the  shadows  of  the  pine 


THE    ADIRONDACKS.  99 

groves  had  spread  a  bounteous  table,  to  which  we  were 
invited.  A  feast  "  under  the  trees,"  and  in  the  society  of 
new-found  friends,  was  a  welcome  addition  to  the  pleas- 
ures of  the  day. 

Then  we  rode  up  the  river  to  successive  rapids  and 
falls,  one  of  which  would  be  famous  if  it  were  in  Switzer- 
land. A  grave-yard  which  we  passed  is  noteworthy  only 
for  one  of  those  queer  epitaphs  which  betray  a  streak  in 
human  nature  so  inconsistent  as  to  be  next  to  incredible. 
It  is  in  these  exact  words : 

"  Sally  Thorne  lies  here,  and  that's  enough ; 
The  candle's  out  and  so's  the  snuff. 
Her  soul's  with  God,  you  need  not  fear. 
And  what  remains  lies  interred  here." 

Halleck's  Hill  was  not  in  our  way,  but  we  rode  some 
miles  around  to  cross  it,  for  the  sake  of  the  view  from  its 
summit.  The  plain,  as  well  watered  as  any  Moses  saw 
from  Pisgah,  stretches  away  and  away  to  the  St.  Lawrence ; 
frequent  church  spires  and  villages  shone  in  the  distance, 
and  a  world  of  wealth,  prosperity,  and  contentment  ap- 
peared to  be  reposing  in  this  vast  Vega. 

Some  years  ago  a  Baptist  minister  in  this  quarter  gave 
his  whole  mind  to  horseshoe  nails,  and  when  a  man 
gives  his  whole  mind  to  any  thing,  something  comes.  So 
in  this  case.  If  the  good  man  failed  to  make  good  points 
to  his  sermons,  he  made  points  to  nails ;  and  the  wisest 
of  preachers  said  that  good  words  are  like  nails  fastened 
by  the  masters  of  assemblies.  Perhaps  this  analogy  led 
him  to  invent  his  machine  to  point  horseshoe  nails;  and, 
having  perfected  it,  he  has  retired  from  preaching,  and 
derives  a  large  income  from  the  royalty  paid  him  by  the 
company  that  uses  his  patent.  The  village  of  Keeseville, 
on  the  Au  Sable  River,  flourishes  with  numerous  manu- 


IOO  UNDER    THE   TREES. 

facturing  establishments.  Besides  its  twine  and  wire 
works,  the  horseshoe -nail  factory  presents  a  wonderful 
specimen  of  power  and  beauty  in  mechanical  labor.  In 
this  thriving  and  beautiful  village  of  Keeseville  I  spent 
the  night,  enjoying  the  hospitalities  of  H.  N.  Hewitt,  Esq. 
The  stage  called  at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning  for  me 
at  the  door.  It  was  cool  and  exhilarating,  and  the  ride 
to  the  Point  of  Rocks  was  exciting  and  delightful.  Some 
of  the  views  on  the  Au  Sable  River  were  picturesque  and 
exceedingly  beautiful.  We  rode  pleasantly  on,  and  came 
to  Au  Sable  Forks,  where  some  sportsmen  halted  from 
the  stages,  with  rods  and  guns  and  dogs,  to  spend  a  day 
or  two  in  the  woods  and  streams.  Here  and  at  Black 
Brook  village  beyond  we  found  the  vast  iron -works  of 
J.  &  J.  Rogers,  whose  mines  are  mines  of  untold  wealth  • 
and  the  mountain  on  our  right,  as  we  ride  on,  is  honey- 
combed by  the  miners'  toil,  taking  out  the  bowels  of  the 
hills  and  bringing  them  down  to  be  roasted  and  tortured 
into  the  thousand  uses  of  man.  The  recent  death  of  the 
son  of  Mr.  Rogers,  a  young  man  who  had  charge  of  the 
out-of-door  business,  was  talked  of  wherever  we  stopped 
as  a  calamity  universally  deplored.  He  had  endeared 
himself  to  the  thousand  laborers  and  their  families  by  his 
manly  bearing,  indefatigable  energy,  and  gentle  kindness. 
I  think,  from  what  I  heard  of  him,  that  he  was  a  hero — 
young,  great,  and  good  ;  powerful  to  do,  and  yet  loving  as 
a  child.  He  overtasked  his  strength,  began  to  run  down, 
sought  recovery  in  a  milder  clime,  failed  to  find  it,  came 
back  and  died  at  home,  among  the  people  who  loved  him, 
and  who  wept  over  his  grave  as  if  their  leader  and  brother 
had  fallen.  It  is  something  to  know  that  in  the  midst  of 
the  woods  and  mines  and  furnaces  such  a  life  is  seen  and 
felt  in  our  matter-of-fact  day.     He  was  doubtless  impru- 


THE   ADIRONDACKS.  IOT 

dent  and  over-earnest  in  his  work  ;  but  to  die  at  twenty- 
four,  with  the  benedictions  of  the  sons  of  toil  upon  his 
dying  head,  is  noble  and  blessed  compared  with  an  old 
age  enriched  by  the  ill-requited  service  and  loaded  with 
the  reproaches  of  the  poor. 

High  on  the  hills  the  charcoal  burners  pursue  their 
carbonic  work,  and  we  frequently  meet  their  long,  black, 
huge  vans,  dragged  along  toward  the  furnaces,  loaded 
with  coal.  By  the  roadside  kilns  are  built,  to  which  the 
wood  is  drawn  and  carbonized,  and  in  one  place  we 
passed  an  extensive  manufactory  of  creosote.  All  the 
industries  of  the  country  are  such  as  relate  to  lumber  and 
minerals.  These  are  apparently  inexhaustible.  The 
pressure  of  demand  will  gradually  compel  better  ways, 
for  now  we  are  riding  over  the  ruins  of  a  plank  road,  and 
worse  going  can  hardly  be  found,  unless  the  corduroy 
patent  is  worse  on  which  Governor  Marcy  met  with  that 
accident  to  one  of  his  garments  for  which  he  brought  the 
State  of  New  York  into  his  debt  to  the  amount  of  fifty 
cents. 

My  fellow- passenger  on  the  front  seat  sought  to  be 
social.  He  was  kind  enough  to  inform  me  that  he  was 
from  Boston.  He  was  bound  for  the  woods  and  camp, 
and  his  implements  of  sport — tools  of  trade — lying  and 
standing  about  him,  showed  that  he  had  purchased  his 
outfit  regardless  of  expense.  Alas  !  for  my  judgment  by 
appearances.  We  halted  to  water  the  weary  and  heated 
horses  at  a  trough  filled  from  a  sweet  spring.  The  youth 
anticipated  the  horses,  and  drawing  from  his  bag  a  large 
bottle  of  whisky,  poured  some  into  a  tin  dipper,  and  add- 
ing just  a  trifle  of  water,  pronounced  it  with  a  big  oath  to 
be  good,  and  drank  it  off.  He  handed  the  bottle  to  the 
driver,  who  had  hastened  to  his  side,  and  greedilv  did 


102  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

likewise,  excepting  that  he  did  not  add  water.     He  said 
he  never  liked  to  mix  his  drinks.     After  they  and  the 
other  animals  were  refreshed,  we  got  under  way  again ; 
the  young  man  was  more  loquacious  than  before  ;  the 
driver  and  he  to   their  profaneness   added  vulgarity,  a 
mixture  less  disagreeable  to  both  than  even  whisky  and 
water.     They  could  not  wait  till  they  came  to  another 
watering-place  before  they  refreshed  again,  but,  taking  the 
bottle  by  the  neck,  they  guzzled,  turn  about.     At  every 
spring  to  which  we  came  they  both  descended  and  fra- 
ternally drank,  with  coarse  jokes,  laughter,  and  swearing. 
The  only  decent  thing  about  it  was  that  they  did  not  in- 
vite me  to  join  them  in  a  drink.     These  frequent  pota- 
tions soon  began  to  tell  upon  them,  and  they  grew  livelier 
and  more   boisterous   in  their  jollity.      The   Bostonian 
punched  the  horses  with  the  butt  of  his  rifle  to  make 
them  go  faster,  while  the  muzzle  of  it  was  often  pointing 
fearfully  toward  my  part  of  the  stage.     This  was  great 
amusement.     Then  he  took  out  his  revolver,  and  let  the 
driver  divert  himself  by  firing  it  off  at  the  trees  by  the 
wayside  as  we  rode  along.     A  rifle  in  the  hands  of  one 
and  a  pistol  in  those  of  another  intoxicated  fellow  were 
making  my  situation  unpleasant,  and  I  began  to  fancy 
that  the  dangers  of  the  wilderness  were  upon  me  much 
sooner  than  they  were  anticipated.     I  could  have  man- 
aged a  bear  or  two,  but  these  drunken  ruffians,  each  of 
them    sporting  with  fire-arms,  were    unbearable.      How 
soon  they  might  be  tempted  to  take  a  pop  at  me,  or  what 
might  happen  from  an  accidental  shot,  I  could  not  tell; 
but  it  would  not  have  been  strange  if  something  serious 
had  occurred  at  any  moment.     The  long  forenoon  wore 
away  in  these  exciting  exercises.     The  rough  plank  road 
became  rougher  as  we  proceeded.      Nothing  on  it  was 


THE   ADIRONDACKS.  IO3 

kept  in  repair  but  the  toll-gates. .  Jolting  on,  pitching 
about,  turning  out  to  get  by  a  bad  place,  we  picked  our 
way  through  the  woods,  till  at  last  we  reached  Franklin 
Falls,  where  we  were  to  stop  for  dinner.  This  over,  and 
the  horses  being  rested  or  exchanged,  we  resumed  our 
seats.  The  dinner  and  the  liquor  made  the  youth  and 
the  driver  stupid.  The  one  stretched  himself  at  full 
length  upon  a  vacant  seat  in  the  stage,  and  was  soon 
sleeping  soundly.  The  other  resisted  the  coming  drowsi- 
ness a  little  longer  ;  but  after  a  while,  having  no  one  to 
talk  to  him,  fell  asleep  with  the  reins  in  his  hands,  and 
the  horses  took  their  own  way — a  very  slow  one  always, 
and  now  a  little  more  so.  We  crept  on,  gradually  rising, 
the  scenery  more  and  more  wild  and  weird  and  gloomy. 
At  Bloomingdale  I  left  the  stage  which  had  thus  far 
brought  me  on.  Mounted  upon  the  high  seat  in  the  front 
of  the  stage  that  bore  upon  it  the  name  of  Paul  Smith,  I 
rode  a  couple  of  hours  from  Bloomingdale  right  into  the 
woods ;  now  and  then  a  clearing  improved  by  culture  met 
the  eye,  but  it  was  plain  that  we  were  passing  away  from 
civilization  and  plunging  into  the  wilderness.  Suddenly  we 
emerged  from  the  dense  forest  on  the  margin  of  a  lovely 
lake,  and  a  short  turn  in  the  road  brought  us  in  front  of 
a  large,  handsome  hotel.  Its  broad  piazza  was  filled  with 
genteel  guests,  ladies  and  children,  apparently  at  home  ; 
and  yet  we  are  now  in  the  lake  country  of  the  Adirondacks. 
The  name  of  this  place  is  Paul  Smith.  That  is  the  name 
of  the  house — also  of  the  proprietor  and  landlord.  He 
was  named  Apollos  Smith,  and  submitted  to  that  name 
until  he  was  long  and  widely  known  as  Pol  Smith,  and 
then  the  heathen  name  gave  place  to  the  Christian,  and 
Pol  became  Paul.  As  Paul  Smith,  he  began  to  keep  a 
little  tavern   on  this  lake,  to  give  shelter  and  liquor  to 


104  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

travelers;  but  my  good  friend, Thomas  H.  Faile,  Esq.,  en- 
couraged him  to  drop  the  liquor,  and  the  loss  proved  a 
great  gain.  He  began  to  flourish  forthwith.  His  tavern 
grew  larger  and  larger  every  year.  He  built  new  wings 
and  raised  the  roof,  and  stretched  the  verandas,  until 
now  his  house  is  by  far  the  greatest  and  best  in  this  whole 
region,  and  Paul  Smith  does  more  business  than  all  the 
rest  of  the  hotels  together.  His  house  is  on  the  margin 
of  the  lower  St.  Regis  Lake,  bright  mirror  of  the  St.  Re- 
gis Mountain,  that  stands  in  full  view  of  the  hotel,  and 
within  easy  reach  by  boat. 

The  first  friend  to  greet  me  was  Dr.  McCosh,  of 
Princeton  College,  who  was  here  quietly  domesticated. 
One  could  hardly  imagine  a  more  decided  change  for  a 
great  philosopher  and  teacher  than  to  leave  college  clois- 
ters, and  find  the  long-drawn  aisles  of  these  forest  tem- 
ples, with  the  woods,  the  waters,  and  the  skies  for  his  only 
studies.  The  seclusion  is  profound  in  spite  of  the  com- 
pany. He  had  just  returned  from  Mount  St.  Regis,  to 
the  summit  of  which  he  and  his  family,  including  three  la- 
dies, had  walked,  making  a  journey  of  ten  miles  up  and 
down  a  mountain,  and  all  were  as  fresh  as  the  morning 
when  they  returned.  After  supper,  and  in  the  cool,  late 
evening,  he  and  I  went  out  into  the  middle  of  the  lake  in 
a  little  boat,  and  sat  under  the  stars.  It  was  an  hour  for 
thought  and  recollection,  and  naturally  we  recurred  to 
scenes  we  had  enjoyed  together  in  other  years  and  lands. 
He  visited  this  country  ten  years  ago,  and  the  day  after 
his  arrival  we  went  to  the  Falls  of  Niagara,  and  there, 
while  he  was  studying  that  wonder  of  Nature,  I  was  study- 
ing a  nobler  work  of  God. 


THE   ADIRONDACKS.  105 


DEER    SHOOTING. 


There  was  great  excitement  on  the  piazza  of  Paul  Smith's 
Hotel.  The  ladies  were  excited.  The  gentlemen  were 
astir.  Even  the  children  were  alive  to  the  matter  that  now 
absorbed  the  attention  of  all  hands.  They  were  drawing 
lots !  Lots  for  what  ?  A  grand  hunt  for  deer  was  to  come 
off  the  next  day.  To  shoot  a  deer  in  the  Adirondacks  is 
a  deed  to  be  proud  of,  to  boast  of  with  that  modest  self- 
complacency  which  hangs  around  all  truly  great  sports- 
men. They  go  home  from  their  summer  campaign  in 
the  wilderness  laden  with  spoils  of  victory.  Their  spear 
and  their  bow,  or  rather  rifle,  got  them  the  trophies  that 
now  adorn  their  halls ;  the  branching  antlers  of  a  noble 
buck  are  stuck  upon  the  wall  of  their  dining-room,  and 
perhaps  the  skin  has  been  made  into  an  elegant  mat 
that  stretches  itself  before  the  fire.  Admiring  friends, 
who  have  never  been  in  the  woods,  listen  with  mute  won- 
der while  the  proud  host  relates  the  perils  of  the  forest  in 
which  he  pursued  the  monarch  of  the  herd,  and  brought 
him  low  with  the  unerring  aim  of  his  trusty  gun.  Perhaps 
there  is  no  pleasure  in  this  world  superior  to  that  of  the 
gallant  hunter  retailing  to  unsophisticated  listeners  his 
triumphs  in  the  field. 

The  brave,  hardy,  eager  gentlemen  from  New  York 
and  other  cities  were  now  prepared  to  go  out  the  next 
morning  to  renew  the  chase.  They  go  two  or  three  times 
a  week,  and  as  the  hunt  is  attended  with  great  expense, 
exposure,  and  fatigue,  and  many  are  to  share  in  it,  it  is 
just  that  each  should  have  a  fair  chance  to  bag  the  game 
and  glory  of  the  day.  The  shore  of  the  lake  is  laid  off 
into  sections,  and  each  section  has  its  point  of  observation. 
These  points  are  some  considerable  distance  asunder,  and 


106  UNDER    THE   TREES. 

lots  are  drawn  by  which  the  station  of  each  one  going  to 
join  the  hunt  is  determined.  This  allotment  is  made 
overnight,  that  when  early  morning  comes,  each  brave 
deerslayer  repairs  to  his  post,  and  with  all  the  patience 
he  may  possess  awaits  the  issue.  With  him,  in  a  light 
boat,  is  the  guide,  who  rows  and  knows  the  spot  to  which 
his  man  is  assigned.  The  boat  soon  reaches  the  point, 
and  nothing  is  to  be  done  but  to  wait,  in  it  or  on  the 
shore,  as  the  wary  and  anxious  sportsman  pleases.  Thus 
the  lake  is  environed  with  the  watchful  picket  guardsmen. 
In  the  mean  time  a  real  huntsman — a  paid  and  experi- 
enced man  of  the  woods — enters  the  forest,  with  a  leash  of 
hounds,  some  six  or  eight,  attached  to  his  belt.  Well  in, 
he  lets  off  a  dog,  trained  to  the  service  and  eager  to  have 
a  run,  who  begins  at  once  to  run  in  a  circle,  widening 
constantly  as  he  seeks  to  get  upon  the  trail  of  a  deer. 
The  hunter  goes  on  and  lets  off  another  dog,  and  then 
another,  until  he  has  started  his  whole  pack,  who,  running 
in  circles,  scour  the  whole  forest,  and  seldom  fail  to  scare 
up  a  buck.  The  moment  the  dog  strikes  the  scent  he  be- 
gins to  bark,  and  the  glad  sound  meets  the  distant  ears 
of  the  waiting  watchers  on  the  lake.  The  deer,  alarmed, 
instinctively  takes  to  the  water,  as  the  only  way  to  break 
the  trail  and  deprive  the  dog  of  his  scent,  by  which  he  is 
keeping  up  the  chase.  The  noble  animal  rushes  through 
the  forest  into  the  lake  to  swim  across.  He  is  the  prize 
of  the  boat  nearest  to  which  he  takes  the  water.  The 
guide  rows  in  pursuit  of  him,  and  being  able  to  row  far 
more  rapidly  than  the  poor  beast  can  swim,  has  no  diffi- 
culty in  overtaking  him.  When  he  has  come  so  near 
that  the  merest  bungler  with  a  gun,  who  could  not  hit  a 
barn  door  across  the  road,  can  now  put  the  muzzle  of  the 
gun  into  the  ear  of  the  animal,  if  he  please,  the  gallant 


THE   ADIRONDACKS.  107 

Nimrod  blazes  away  with  his  new  rifle,  lodges  the  bullet 
in  the  brain  of  the  beast,  and  the  work  is  done.  If  the 
deer,  however,  will  not  keep  still  long  enough  to  be  shot 
in  this  way,  the  guide  takes  him  by  the  tail  and  holds  him 
while  the  accomplished  sportsman  shoots  him  in  the  head. 
It  sometimes  occurs  that  even  then,  with  the  buck  thus 
held  by  the  tail  at  one  end  and  the  rifle  in  the  hands  of 
an  excited  shooter  at  another,  the  ball  goes  all  abroad  and 
the  game  is  not  hurt.  Then  the  guide,  with  an  oar  or 
with  his  own  stalwart  arms,  manages  to  get  the  animal's 
head  under  water,  and  so  drowns  him.  But  in  the  best 
of  the  business,  it  requires  the  same  amount  of  science, 
skill,  valor,  and  endurance  to  kill  a  deer  that  it  would  to 
go  out  to  the  barn  and  kill  the  cow.  Give  the  cow  the 
run  of  the  yard,  and  it  would  be  more  of  a  feat  to  bring 
her  down  with  a  rifle  than  to  slay  a  deer  in  the  Adiron- 
dacks. 

Before  the  present  plan  of  laying  off  the  lake  into  sta- 
tions was  hit  upon,  the  rule  was  that  whoever  got  within 
rifle-shot  of  the  deer  in  the  water  first  should  fire.  One 
of  my  friends  was  out  with  a  party  hunting  !  When  the 
deer  took  to  the  lake  the  boats  started  from  their  several 
points,  and  the  gentleman  in  the  first  fired  and  missed. 
Then  came  up  the  second,  and  his  aim  was  equally  bad. 
The  deer  now  belonged  to  the  third,  whose  right  there  was 
none  to  dispute.  He  came  on,  and  having  his  son,  a  lad 
of  twelve  years,  with  him,  laid  the  boat  alongside  of  the 
swimming  buck,  which  the  guide  kindly  seized  and  held 
fast  by  the  tail  while  the  boy  delivered  the  charge  into 
his  head  and  made  him  dead. 

The  slain  deer  is  now  towed  to  the  shore  and  transport- 
ed to  the  hotel  in  triumph.     All  the  ladies  shake  hands 

with  the  successful  hero  of  the  day,  who  is  congratulated 

4 


Io8  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

upon  his  heroism  and  prowess  as  a  hunter.  He  is  the 
champion  of  the  woods  until  the  next  hunt  comes  off,  and 
some  one  else,  going  through  the  same  fearful  scenes, 
comes  home  with  the  spoils  of  the  chase,  to  be  greeted 
with  the  applause  of  admiring  women  and  crowned  with 
the  laurels  of  the  latest  victory. 

This  evening  a  distinguished  divine  was  the  hero,  hav- 
ing brought  in  from  the  last  hunt  the  trophies  of  the  field, 
a  noble  pair  of  antlers  and  the  skin  of  a  fat  buck.  It  is 
not  probable  that  he  will  be  equally  successful  to-morrow, 
for  you  observe  that  it  does  not  depend  upon  the  skill  or 
patience  or  power  of  the  sportsman ;  but  the  simple  mat- 
ter is,  whether  the  frightened  animal  flees  into  the  lake 
near  one  boat  or  another.  It  is  death  to  him  to  go  into 
the  water  any  where,  for  the  lake  is  lined  with  rifles  ready 
to  do  him  execution.  It  is  only  a  question  of  chance 
as  to  whether  this  or  that  man,  the  banker  or  the  baker, 
the  lawyer  or  the  divine,  shall  have  the  pleasure  and 
the  glory  of  letting  out  the  life-blood  of  the  pride  of  the 
.  forest. 

It  is  quite  essential  to  the  good  standing  of  a  gentleman 
who  comes  here  to  shoot  that  he  should  kill  at  least  one 
deer.  The  ladies  enter  so  heartily  into  it  that  a  man 
fancies  he  loses  somewhat  in  the  eyes  of  his  own  wife  if 
he  fail  to  assassinate  one  or  two  bucks  during  the  season. 
Not  long  ago  a  clergyman  from  the  city  of  New  York,  who 
was  equally  anxious  and  unlucky,  having  heard  that  a 
guide  had  a  pet  deer  of  his  own,  bought  the  beast,  and  hired 
the  man  to  take  it  out  slyly  in  the  morning  and  tie  it  to  a 
tree.  The  reverend  hunter  followed,  shot  the  poor  thing 
and  brought  it  home  to  his  wife,  who  rejoiced  with  him  as 
one  who  had  taken  great  spoils. 

There  are  other  ways  of  taking  deer  here,  such  as 


THE   ADIRONDACKS.  IO9 

watching  for  them  by  night  at  favorite  places  where  they 
come  to  the  lake  for  drink,  and  shooting  them  there ;  but 
this  requires  work  in  the  dark,  and  keeps  a  gentleman  out 
of  his  bed  when  he  prefers  to  be  in  it.  The  more  com- 
mon one  I  have  described,  which  is  attended  with  no  fa- 
tigue nor  exposure,  as  the  valiant  hunter  can  take  his 
lunch  and  an  umbrella  with  him,  and  hunt  a  deer  to  the 
death  without  rising  from  his  seat.  So  far  as  I  know,  this 
is  the  most  luxurious  mode  of  enjoying  "the  chase"  that 
is  at  present  practiced  among  accomplished  sportsmen. 
Nothing  could  be  safer  and  pleasanter,  unless  you  sit  in 
an  arm-chair  at  the  menagerie  and  fire  at  the  beasts  in 
their  cages. 
'  Hence  we  view:  i.  That  the  killing  of  a  deer  in  the 
Adirondacks  is  no  very  great  exploit.  2.  That  the  least 
said  about  it  the  better.  3.  That  the  killing  of  deer  is  in 
itself  right  and  proper,  for  the  animal  is  good  for  the  food 
of  man,  and  all  that  are  killed  are  duly  eaten.  We  are 
fond  of  venison,  and  the  Creator  doubtless  provided  it  for 
our  use.  It  is  quite  proper  that  ministers  and  laymen 
should  take  a  hand  in  purveying  for  the  table,  and  the 
zest  of  the  hunt  is  a  pleasure  to  be  enjoyed  by  those  who 
like  it.  Because  I  have  no  taste  for  the  sport,  I  will  not 
infer  that  it  is  foolish  or  wicked  for  others.  Let  them  en- 
joy it.  But  the  romance  of  deer-stalking  and  the  renown 
of  the  successful  huntsman  somewhat  fade  as  we  contem- 
plate the  picture  of  two  men  in  a  boat,  the  one  holding  a 
beast  in  the  water  while  the  other  shoots  him.  It  is  right, 
but  it  is  not  great. 

But  there  is  glory  up  here.  There  is  one  glory  of  the 
woods,  and  another  glory  of  the  lakes,  and  another  of  the 
mountains.  And  the  heavens  cover  the  wilderness  with 
their  glory.     And  nature  is  untutored,  wild,  luxuriant,  free, 


IIO  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

jubilant.  You  can  shout  as  loud  as  you  like,  and  sing 
and  laugh,  and  nobody  with  store  clothes  or  city  ways 
will  hear  you.  You  breathe  freely  and  expand  your  chest, 
and  forget  there  is  a  book  in  the  world,  and  don't  care 
if  there  is  never  to  be  another,  and  then  take  a  strong  pull 
at  the  oar,  and  get  tired  and  hungry  before  you  go  in  to 
eat  and  sleep  and  rise  up  to  play. 

If  thinking  is  your  mood,  there's  nothing  here  to  hinder. 
It  is  the  most  subdued,  quiet,  solemn  solitude  that  my 
soul  was  ever  in.  I  have  seen  no  signs  that  the  aborig- 
ines were  ever  here.  No  one  is  here  but  the  strangers 
who  come  and  go.  And  the  Invisible  !  The  Great  Spirit 
is  here  dwelling  in  the  forest  temples,  riding  upon  the 
circle  of  the  heavens,  speaking  in  the  wind  and  thunder. 
It  is  good  always  to  be  in  the  midst  of  him ;  to  feel  this 
strong  wholesome  air  to  be  his  love — an  unseen  sea,  in 
which  we  float  and  bathe  and  rejoice  continually  •  to  look 
down  into  this  mirror  in  which  his  blue  sky  is  reflected, 
and  to  see  in  that  beautiful  concave  tokens  of  his  provi- 
dence, care,  and  kindness,  a  loving  Father  over  all  and  in 
all,  and  we  in  him,  now  and  always.  We  will  get  health 
and  strength  in  these  wild  woodlands,  and  then  go  down 
to  use  them  all  for  him,  and  those  he  bids  us  love  and 
serve.  Life  is  good.  Work  is  good.  It  is  all  very 
good.  Even  play  is  good.  And  by -and -by  rest.  No 
more  toil.  No  pain.  No  misunderstanding.  But  peace, 
rest,  love,  praise. 

FISHING   IN   THE   LAKES. 

I  flatter  myself  that  I  am  lineal  successor  of  that  apos- 
tle who  said,  "  I  go  a-fishing  j"  or  of  one  of  those  six  who 
said,  "We  also  go  with  thee."  From  early  childhood  I 
have  been  in  that  line.     If  half  the  time  spent  by  the 


THE   ADIRONDACKS.  Ill 

brookside  fishing  had  been  given  to  study,  I  would  have 
more  book-lore  to-day.  Perhaps,  also,  less  of  nature,  less 
of  health,  less  of  the  world.  The  late  Rev.  Dr.  Bethune 
was  one  of  the  ardent  lovers  of  the  rod,  the  fly,  and  the 
stream,  a  thorough  enthusiast  in  the  art  and  science  of 
fishing ;  and  when  I  asked  him  where  he  first  learned  to 
love  it,  he  said  that  when  he  was  a  boy  at  school  in  Salem, 
N.  Y.,  a  man  who  was  known  as  Fisher  Billy  was  often 
sent  up  there  from  Cambridge — the  town  below — to  go 
upon  the  limits  of  the  jail — the  limits  were  a  mile  every 
way  from  the  jail,  and  a  debtor  had  the  freedom  of  the 
limits.  Fisher  Billy,  always  in  debt,  for  he  would  go 
a-fishing  when  he  ought  to  be  at  work,  would  bring  his  rod 
and  lines  and  whip  the  brooks  about  Salem.  Young 
Bethune  fell  into  his  company,  and  was  then  and  there 
inspired  with  love  of  this  gentle  art.  "  The  very  man,"  I 
replied,  "who  first  taught  me."  And  so  it  proved  that 
Fisher  Billy,  in  jail  at  Salem,  was  fishing  with  Bethune ; 
out  of  jail,  Billy  and  I  followed  the  running  brooks  to- 
gether in  Cambridge. 

It  is  more  of  an  art  and  more  of  a  science  now  than  it 
was  then.  And  all  the  brooks  and  lakes  within  easy 
reach  of  the  cities  have  been  hunted  and  whipped  and 
worried  till  trout — the  only  fish  that  true  amateur  fisher- 
men seek  after — have  become  as  rare  as  gold  eagles  or 
silver  dollars.  Up  here  in  these  lakes  and  streams  of 
the  Adirondack  region,  there  is  as  yet  comparative  retire- 
ment and  peace.  It  is  only  a  term  of  some  thirty  or  forty 
years  since  these  primitive  wilds  were  invaded  by  the 
sportsman.  The  hundred  lakes  and  rivers  and  rivulets 
are  too  many  and  too  vast  to  have  been  sensibly  affected 
by  these  years  of  spoil.  All  the  lakes  are  not  inhabited 
by  trout.     Some  of  them  are  infested  with  lizards,  that 


112  UNDER    THE   TREES. 

leave  nothing  else  alive  within  their  domains.  They 
would  devour  all  the  eggs  that  fish  would  lay  if  there 
were  any  on  such  employment  bent.  Seth  Green  could 
not  propagate  trout  where  pickerel  abound.  In  fact, 
trout  are  such  good  eating  that  they  eat  one  another. 
And  many  of  these  waters  are  therefore  as  clear  of  fish 
as  the  lakes  in  Central  Park.  Others  swarm  with  them. 
All  the  fishing  of  the  amateurs  produces  no  perceptible 
reduction  of  the  number.  Only  a  few  of  the  thousands 
who  come  here  catch  any.  The  rest  go  a-fishing.  But 
fishing  is  one  thing,  catching  fish  is  another.  I  have 
done  a  good  deal  of  both  in  my  day,  and  though  now  not 
much  addicted  to  the  sport,  and  rarely  finding  time  in  the 
course  of  a  year  to  indulge  in  the  passion  of  younger  days, 
I  can  tell  you  how  to  fish  with  a  fly. 

Fly-fishing  ranks  among  the  graceful  arts.  A  fly  rod 
should  be  twelve  feet  long,  light,  very  flexible,  and  yet 
strong.  English  anglers  adhere  to  heavy  rods.  Amer- 
ican sportsmen  regard  a  seven -ounce  rod  the  perfect 
weight  for  trout,  and  are  yearly  decreasing  the  weight  of 
their  salmon  rods. 

The  line  should  be  braided  silk,  or  a  prepared  silk  line. 
Hair  and  silk  intermingled  make  a  line  highly  recom- 
mended by  the  dealers,  but  wholly  rejected  by  experi- 
enced anglers.  For  trout-fishing  the  line  should  be  about 
a  hundred  feet  long.  The  leader,  or,  as  some  call  it,  the 
casting-line,  should  be  nine  feet  long.  The  reel  should 
be  as  light  as  possible  to  hold  the  hundred  feet  of  line. 
There  are  so  many  persons  to  whom  fly-fishing  is  a  mys- 
tery that  it  may  be  well  to  explain  it. 

Imagine,  then,  the  reel  in  its  place  on  the  light  rod, 
the  silk  line  passed  through  the  rings  to  the  tip,  where 
the  casting-line,  of  silk  worm-gut,  is  attached.     On  the 


THE   ADIRONDACKS.  II3 

casting-line,  at  equal  distances  apart,  are  looped  two  or 
three  artificial  flies.  Grasping  the  rod  in  the  right  hand, 
the  angler  pulls  off  two  feet  or  so  of  line  from  the  reel 
with  his  left  hand,  and  then  gently,  but  with  great  skill, 
throws  this  increase  of  length  through  the  rings  and  off 
from  the  end  of  the  rod,  steadily  and  gracefully  increas- 
ing the  length  of  line  with  each  wave  of  the  rod,  until  he 
has  given  out  as  long  a  line  as  he  intends  to  cast.  This 
length  of  cast  will  depend  on  a  variety  of  circumstances ; 
it  may  be  only  the  length  of  the  rod,  or  it  may  extend  to 
nearly  or  quite  a  hundred  feet.  The  casting-line  which 
carries  the  flies  falls  on  the  water,  lying  out  straight  at 
the  end  of  the  line.  Then  the  angler  lifts  the  rod  in  his 
hand,  thus  drawing  the  flies  along  near  or  on  the  surface 
of  the  water.  He  draws  them  only  a  few  feet,  and  if  no 
trout  rise  to  seize  the  fly,  he  lifts  the  line  from  the  water 
with  a  slight  jerk  of  the  rod,  throws  it  back  over  his 
shoulder,  and  again  forward  to  the  surface  of  the  water, 
again  drawing  and  lifting  and  casting.  The  object  is  to 
draw  the  flies  over  the  surface  of  the  water  in  various  di- 
rections, and  thus  "  whip  "  all  the  water  in  which  trout  are 
apt  to  be. 

The  trout,  seeing  the  fly,  rushes  up  from  below,  and 
generally  strikes  it  with  a  swinging  blow  of  his  tail,  at  the 
same  instant  turning  his  open  mouth  to  seize  it.  A  slight 
movement  of  the  angler's  wrist  strikes  the  hook  into  the 
mouth  of  the  fish,  and  then  it  only  remains  to  land  him. 
A  light  fly  rod  is  never  used  to  lift  a  fish  from  the  water. 
A  landing-net  is  needed,  unless  the  angler  is  well  used  to 
landing  fish  with  his  hand.  The  rod  must  be  always  held 
so  that  it  bends,  and  thus  the  spring  of  the  rod  keeps  the 
hook  tight  in  the  mouth  of  the  fish.  If  the  rod  be  light, 
this  bend  and  spring  will  generally  prevent  the  breaking 

H 


114  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

of  the  line  or  the  tearing  out  of  the  hook.  The  fish  strug- 
gles to  get  free,  but  the  angler  gradually  reels  in  the  line 
until  there  is  only  the  nine  feet  of  casting-line  beyond  the 
tip.  Then,  if  the  fish  be  well  tired  out,  he  lifts  him  to  the 
top  of  the  water,  places  the  landing-net  under  him,  and 
takes  him  out. 

It  is  a  meditative  amusement.  Fly-fishing  is  more  ex- 
citing than  the  vulgar  way  of  bait,  though  I  regard  the  lat- 
ter as  the  more  honorable  of  the  two.  In  both  cases  you 
deceive  the  fish,  but  with  the  fly  you  mock  him  with  the 
semblance  of  the  insect,  and  he  jumps  for  it  and  is  caught 
with  a  bare  hook;  in  the  latter  case  he  takes  the  verita- 
ble food  he  needs,  and  dies  at  his  dinner.  The  question 
is  not  worth  debating,  but  I  rather  prefer  the  worm.  All 
real  sportsmen  despise  fishing  with  bait  where  it  is  possi- 
ble to  cast  the  fly.  I  have  a  brother  to  whom  all  my  love 
for  piscatory  pleasures  passed  at  his  birth.  Certain  it  is 
that  on  or  about  the  time  of  his  coming  into  the  world 
my  fondness  for  it  ceased,  and  has  never  returned,  while 
he  grew  up  with  a  passion  for  the  sport,  which  has  grown 
with  his  growth.  I  have  fished  in  his  company  this  sum- 
mer, finding  far  more  excitement  and  enjoyment  in  seeing 
him  throw  a  line  sixty  or  seventy  feet  long  and  pick  a 
trout  up  at  that  far  distance  from  the  boat  than  to  both- 
er and  blunder  about  it  myself.  He  came  up  here  before 
me,  and  you  will  not  be  surprised  that  the  receipt  of  such 
a  letter  as  the  following  stirred  within  me  the  slumbering 
fires  of  youth,  fires  that  made  me  take  to  the  waters. 

MY    BROTHER'S    LETTER. 

Paul  Smith's,  June  18. 
"Dear  Brother: — My  health  and  strength  continue  on 
the  gain,  through  constant  exercise  and  exposure  in  the 


THE   ADIRONDACKS.  115 

open  air.  Rain  or  shine,  I  am  out  from  morning  till 
night,  and  I  sleep  serenely.  Last  Saturday  I  fished  the 
Osgood  River,  through  the  '  burned  ground,'  and  brought 
in  ninety-three  trout,  many  very  fair-sized,  and  all  good 
fish.  It  is  plain  that  large  fish  are  not  to  be  found  here 
as  plentifully  as  in  old  times.  I  recall  my  first  visit  to 
this  spot  some  fourteen  years  ago,  and  the  numbers  of 
large  trout  that  rose  to  my  flies  in  the  bay,  at  the  mouth 
of  the  Weller  Brook.  Now  they  are  rare.  Yesterday 
morning  I  had  for  the  first  time  an  hour's  sport  which 
reminded  me  of  old  times.  I  went  out  just  at  daybreak. 
My  guides,  John  and  Frank,  had  not  yet  put  in  their 
morning  appearance,  and  I  took  a  boat  and  went  alone 
around  Island  Point  into  the  bay.  Off  the  point  a  low 
fog  covered  the  water  —  a  sure  sign  that  no  trout  would 
rise  there ;  but  I  was  glad  to  run  out  of  it  as  I  entered 
the  bay  and  found  a  clear,  soft  morning,  with  a  slight  rip- 
ple on  the  water  from  a  rising  breeze.  For  three  weeks 
past  I  have  been  searching  the  bay  for  trout.  I  have  had 
no  doubt  whatever  that  there  was  a  point  of  rendezvous 
somewhere  in  the  semicircle  whose  radius  is  over  a  fourth 
of  a  mile.  But  I  have  cast,  morning  and  evening,  over 
what  seemed  to  me  every  inch  of  its  surface,  and  found 
only  a  few  small  fish. 

"  As  I  emerged  from  the  fog  and  looked  ahead  (I  was 
pushing,  not  pulling  my  boat),  I  saw  a  good  trout  break 
the  surface  two  hundred  feet  from  me  ;  and,  shoving  swift- 
ly forward,  I  threw  two  flies  over  the  spot  before  the  con- 
centric waves  which  he  had  made  had  wholly  vanished. 
The  tail  fly  was  a  dark  jungle-cock,  and  the  bobber  a 
scarlet  ibis.  Imagine  my  satisfaction,  as  the  flies  struck 
the  water,  at  the  sight  of  a  fine  trout  going  out  into  the 
air  and  coming  down,  head  first  and  mouth  open,  on  the 


Il6  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

scarlet  ibis.  No  need  to  strike  him.  He  was  hungry, 
and  hooked  himself  tight  and  firm ;  and  the  first  rush  he 
made — bending  my  Norris  rod  in  a  semicircle  as  I  gave 
him  the  spring  of  it — told  me  that  he  was  a  strong  fish  for 
his  weight,  which  turned  out  a  trifle  over  two  pounds. 
We  don't  kill  trout  now,  as  we  used  in  our  boy  sports. 
What  is  there  that  we  do  now  as  then  ?  Do  you  know  of 
any  thing?  Many  a  trout  I  have  landed  with  a  home- 
made fly  on  the  end  of  a  short  linen  line,  tied  to  a  birch 
or  a  hackmatack  rod,  by  guiding  him  in  the  current  of  a 
brook  till  I  could  suddenly  rush  him  down  stream  and 
out  of  the  water  on  some  gravel  beach,  where  sometimes 
(when  I  was  a  very  small  shaver — the  trout  very  large) 
I  would  literally  fall  on  him,  and  surround  him  with  my 
arms  and  legs.  All  that  was  ages  and  ages  ago ;  and 
now  I  am  fishing  with  a  rod  that  cost  sixty  dollars,  a  reel 
that  cost  twenty,  and  a  line  that  cost  six,  and  flies  that 
cost  two  and  three  dollars  a  dozen,  and — oh,  that  I  had 
known  the  use  of  it  when  we  were  boys— a  landing-net, 
the  cost  of  which  I  can't  tell,  for  I  have  used  it  ten  years, 
and  in  repairs  during  that  time  it  has  passed  through  sev- 
eral generations  of  distinct  existence  in  each  separate 
part  of  it.  And  with  all  this  tackle  do  I  kill  more  trout 
than  when  I  was  a  boy?  Yes,  fourfold.  All  the  twad- 
dle about  country  boys  and  country  tackle  beating  the 
city  sportsman  is  nonsense.  I  speak  from  thorough 
knowledge  of  both.  In  a  mountain  brook  where  the 
trout  are  small  and  plenty,  give  me  bare  legs,  a  birch  rod, 
and  a  short  line.  But  in  lake  fishing  where  large  trout 
are  not  over-plenty,  the  costly  fly-rod  and  tackle,  in  the 
hands  of  a  knowing  sportsman,  will  do  the  work.  By 
long  casts  and  rapid,  easy  work,  he  covers  in  a  short  time 
a  vast  extent  of  water,  and  thus  finds  the  fish  that  would 


THE   ADIRONDACKS.  117 

be  slow  to  find  a  baited  hook.  You  should  see  the  work- 
ing of  one  of  these  six-ounce  Norris  rods.  It  is  a  beau- 
tiful piece  of  machinery,  and  a  fish  once  fairly  hooked  is 
as  good  as  landed. 

"  When  I  struck  that  two-pounder,  had  he  been  on  a 
line  fast  to  a  birch  pole,  his  first  rush  would  probably 
have  torn  the  hook  from  his  mouth,  or  broken  rod  or 
line ;  and  if  I  had  tried  in  the  old-fashioned  way  to  lift 
him  out  of  water,  the  chances  are  ten  to  one  I  would  have 
lost  him.  But  my  Norris  rod  bends  tip  to  butt  without 
breaking,  and  when  he  started  I  threw  the  rod  back  over 
my  shoulder,  and  the  tip,  thin  as  a  knitting-needle,  was 
out  before  my  eyes  pointing  to  the  fish — the  spring  of  the 
rod  serving  to  keep  the  hook  gently  pressed  in  its  place, 
and  the  reel  paying  out  line  as  long  as  the  trout  contin- 
ued his  rush.  One,  two,  three  rushes,  and  then  he  turned 
and  began  to  swim  in  a  circle,  and,  yielding  to  the  press- 
ure, approached  the  boat  as  I  reeled  in.  Then  he  swam 
around  me,  rushed  under  the  boat  now  and  then,  made 
some  sharp,  short  dashes,  and  after  three  or  five  minutes 
of  struggling  gave  it  up,  and  allowed  me  to  bring  him 
where  I  could  put  the  landing-net  under  him.  As  I  tried 
that  he  made  one  quick  plunge,  but  he  was  in  the  net, 
and  then  in  the  boat.  I  cast  my  flies  again  instantly, 
and  two  fish  rose,  one  seizing  the  bobber,  and  the  other 
the  tail  fly.  This  time  each  fish  struck  the  fly  with  his 
tail,  and,  turning  sharp,  seized  it  with  his  mouth.  Both 
were  hooked,  and  both  landed.  So  it  went  on,  and  in  an 
hour  or  less  I  had  killed  nine  trout,  which  weighed  eleven 
and  a  half  pounds.  This  is  nothing,  in  point  of  size, 
compared  with  what  we  do  in  Maine  and  Northern  New 
Hampshire;  but  the  fish  are  strong.  This  is  the  best 
hour's  sport  I  have  had,  and  I  have  given  you  rather  a 


Il8  UNDER   TK2   TREES. 

longer  account  of  it  than  you  will  care  for.  But  come  up 
here,  and  see  or  do  the  thing  yourself.  I  love  angling  so 
well  that  I  always  like  better  to  see  another  take  fish  than 
to  take  them  myself.  And  I  know  no  other  place  where 
one  can  live  in  so  good  a  hotel  and  find  plenty  of  trout. 
I  shall  be  here  till  the  first,  and  if  you  can  not  come  till 
I  have  gone,  I  can  trust  you  to  the  tender  mercies  of 
Paul,  and  by  that  time  you  will  find  plenty  of  sportsmen 
here.    Just  now,  I  have  the  house  pretty  much  to  myself." 

ON    THE    LAKES. 

Early  in  the  morning  Paul  Smith  stood  upon  the  shore 
of  the  lake  near  one  side  of  a  light  skiff,  and  Dr.  McCosh 
by  the  other.  I  was  in  it,  and  alone,  except  the  guide, 
who  was  to  be  my  oarsman,  and  to  conduct  me  through 
many  of  the  lakes  of  the  Adirondacks.  The  landlord  of 
the  hotel  and  the  President  of  Princeton  had  done  me 
the  great  honor  of  rising  with  the  larks  to  see  me  off.  As 
I  pushed  out  into  the  waters  of  the  Lower  St.  Regis,  a 
sense  of  solitude  began  at  once  to  come  over  me.  The 
venerable  Doctor  had  given  me  his  blessing  as  we  parted, 
and  I  felt  it  was  good  to  have  it.  The  morning  mists 
disappeared  before  the  sun  coming  up  in  his  strength, 
and  the  loveliness  of  a  cool  day  in  August ;  a  bright, 
bracing  atmosphere  lay  around  and  over  me,  possessing 
my  veins  and  filling  me  with  the  rich  sensations  of  high 
animal  enjoyment.  This  is  the  luxury  of  living,  of  simply 
being  a  thing  with  life,  rejoicing  in  taking  a  long  breath, 
shouting,  rowing,  or  leaping.  We  do  not  know  much  of 
this  in  town,  certainly  not  in  hot  weather.  It  marks  the 
difference  in  nations,v  and  tells  on  character,  religion,  let- 
ters, and  art.  It  is  climate :  not  half  enough  studied  in 
its  bearings  upon  society  and  the  progress  of  the  race. 


THE   ADIRONDACKS.  119 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  took  me  across  the  lake  into  the 
"slew,"  through  which  the  guide  poled  the  boat  cautious- 
ly among  the  fallen  trees  and  snags  into  Spitfire,  a  lake- 
let with  a  name  that  does  it  justice,  and  then  by  a  narrow 
pass  into  St.  Regis  Lake,  the  upper.  This  is  nearly  on 
the  summit  of  the  lake  region,  1500  or  2000  feet  above 
the  sea,  its  waters  flowing  off  to  the  north,  and  the  lakes 
into  which  we  are  soon  to  come  discharging  themselves 
eastward,  and  then  northeasterly  into  Lake  Champlain. 

A  sense  of  exquisite  beauty  filled  me  as  the  skiff  glided 
gracefully  into  the  midst  of  this  lovely  sheet  of  water. 
The  sun  was  now  well  up  in  the  blue,  cloudless  sky. 
Many  isles  lay  around  on  the  bosom  of  the  lake.  They 
and  the  shores  were  covered  with  dense  pine  and  spruce 
trees.  The  water  was  like  a  polished  mirror  of  steel. 
The  islands  were  reflected.  So  was  the  heaven  above 
me.  Sometimes  over  the  forest  shores  the  distant  ranges 
of  mountains  told  me  there  was  a  world  beyond  and  out 
of  the  limits  of  the  bowl  in  which  I  was  floating.  But 
the  lake  seemed  as  a  little  sea  of  glass,  clear  as  crystal, 
brilliant  in  the  sun,  skirted  with  living  green,  evergreen, 
and  the  feeling  of  the  place  was  that  of  perfect  isolation 
from  "the  world  and  the  rest  of  mankind."  During  all 
the  tour  of  these  and  three  or  four  lakes  yet  to  be  men- 
tioned, I  did  not  see  a  boat  or  the  face  of  a  man,  or  any 
thing  to  intimate  that  one  had  ever  entered  this  charming 
desert  before.  No  voice,  no  gun,  no  bark  of  a  dog  in  the 
all-surrounding  forest  disturbed  the  deep  serenity  of  the 
scene.  Now  and  then  the  scream  of  a  loon,  fearfully  like 
that  of  a  human  cry,  would  pierce  the  ear  and  increase 
the  stillness  as  it  ceased.  But  for  my  guide,  who  happily 
was  stupid  and  said  nothing,  I  was  the  only  man  there. 
It  was  a  natural  paradise,  and  I  was  as  solitary  as  Adam 


120  UNDER   THE    TREES. 

before  Eve  appeared.  Charles  V.  said  of  the  cathedral 
of  Burgos,  such  was  its  beauty,  it  should  be  put  under  a 
glass  case  and  kept  for  show.  It  was  almost  painful  to 
me  that  the  loveliness  of  this  scene  is  lost  to  the  world. 
Why  is  such  a  waste  of  glory  here  ?  The  sun  shines  on 
nothing  more  charming  to  behold.  Here  it  lies,  and  the 
summer  dies  away  into  winter ;  and  then  the  spring 
clothes  it  with  resurrection  beauty  again.  Perhaps  the 
angels  see  it.  But  why  was  so  much  glory  spilled  where 
so  few  mortals,  out  of  millions,  ever  see  it  ? 

We  touched  the  southern  shore  of  the  lake  and  stood 
in  the  margin  of  a  dense  forest,  apparently  impenetrable, 
certainly  gloomy,  damp,  and  cold.  Out  of  the  thicket 
emerged  an  old  man,  in  many-colored  and  patched  rai- 
ment, with  long  and  matted  beard  and  hair,  who  was  not 
far  above  his  companions  of  the  woods,  and  this  queer 
old  fellow  had  with  him  a  horse  and  a  sled.  Without 
words,  for  his  business  was  understood  by  the  guide,  who 
knew  where  to  meet  him,  the  little  boat  was  pulled  out 
of  the  water  and  hoisted  upon  the  sled,  and  we  three 
trudged  behind  it  as  the  beast  drew  it  along  over  the 
damp,  swampy  way  that  had  been  made  for  this  purpose. 
This  is  called  a  "carry."  It  might  have  been  avoided 
by  taking  a  passage  around  it  by  what  is  called  "  the  nine 
carries,"  so  many  little  lakes  with  slight  separations,  over 
which  the  guide  drags  or  lifts  his  boat.  As  this  is  harder 
work  for  him,  he  said  nothing  to  me  of  that  route,  and  as 
the  rule  of  the  country  is  to  get  all  the  expenses,  as  well  as 
the  $2  50  a  day  to  the  guide,  out  of  the  traveler,  the  guide 
has  clear  gain  by  making  his  passenger  pay  the  dollar, 
which  is  the  fare  on  this  overland  ferry  ;  then  you  pay 
him  another  dollar  to  come  back  over  it  the  next  day, 
which  he  saves  for  himself  by  going  through  the  "  nine 


*  THE   ADIRONDACKS.  ■  121 

carries  "  tomorrow.  The  old  ferryman  proved  to  be  a 
character,  a  Frenchman,  whose  first  name  was  Moses. 
His  other  name  was  to  me  unintelligible,  though  he  and 
the  guide  took  turns  in  pronouncing  it  for  me.  He  is  a 
trapper  in  winter,  and  makes  game  of  the  beavers  and  ot- 
ter and  mink,  whose  furs  pay  him  better  than  toting  boats 
across  the  land  in  summer.  The  walk  was  through  a  low 
and  wet  pathway  in  the  woods,  and  I  was  quite  ready  to 
suppose  we  had  made  a  long  two  miles'  march  when 
Moses  lifted  up  his  voice  and  cried,  "  Half-way  !" 

Another  half-hour  brought  us  to  the  border  of  another 
lake,  at  a  clearing  where  stands  the  solitary  cabin  of 
Moses  the  Trappist ;  for  he  might  well  be  one  of  that 
order,  his  business  being  indicated  by  the  title  and  his 
solitude  befitting  the  monk.  About  his  abode  were  all 
the  tools  and  signs  of  his  craft.  And  a  barrel  of  cider  on 
skids,  with  a  junk  bottle  inserted  into  the  bung-hole,  told 
me  that  however  smart  he  might  be  in  catchirig  muskrats, 
he  does  not  know  how  to  make  vinegar.  Take  the  bottle 
out;  leave  the  bung  out;  let  the  barrel  be  half  full  of 
cider ;  shake  it  thoroughly  three  times  a  day,  and  it  will  be 
vinegar  in  ten  days.  The  bottle  keeps  the  oxygen  out; 
shaking  gets  it  in  and  does  the  business.  "  What  I  know 
about  farming  "  is  very  little,  but  I  can  make  vinegar, 
though  well  aware  that  more  flies  are  caught  with  molasses. 

At  the  door  of  the  cabin  of  Moses  the  Trapper  we  em- 
barked on  Big  Clear  Pond,  a  round  lake,  with  no  islands 
in  it,  and  four  miles  in  diameter.  The  wind  had  now 
risen,  and  as  the  little  skiff  danced  about  merrily,  my 
dull  guide  sought  to  entertain  me  with  narrow  escapes  he 
had  made  on  former  excursions,  when  he  had  ladies  for 
passengers,  who  had  been  frightened  greatly  on  this  very 
lake,  which  has  a  fine  sweep  for  the  wind,  and  easily  makes 


122  UNDER   THE    TREES. 

a  great  swell.  As  we  approached  the  other  shore,  he  gave 
a  shrill  whistle  to  summon  a  man  to  the  "  carry."  In 
some  stages  of  the  water  we  could  follow  the  "  slew  "  be- 
tween this  and  the  next  lake  ;  but  now  it  was  too  shallow, 
and  we  were  obliged  to  resort  to  horse-power.  At  the 
beach  a  boy  was  waiting  with  a  horse  and  cart.  Upon 
the  latter  was  hoisted  the  boat,  which  was  fastened  in  its 
place  with  pegs,  and  as  the  stretch  was  some  three  miles 
across — a  longer  walk  than  was  agreeable — I  resumed 
my  seat  in  the  boat  on  the  cart,  and  was  jolted  and 
tumbled  over  the  horrible  pass,  into  the  densest  forest 
and  through  marshy  ground,  that  made  the  ride  any  thing 
but  enjoyable.  Nor  was  the  comfort  of  the  journey  in- 
creased by  the  heavy  thunder  that  now  rolled  over  us, 
presaging  rain,  from  which  the  only  protection  would  be 
the  boat  turned  upside  down,  with  myself  on  the  wet 
ground  underneath.  Happily  the  clouds  passed  over,  and 
when  we  emerged  from  the  forest  the  sun  came  out  also 
to  meet  us.  On  the  edge  of  the  lake  to  which  we  had 
now  come  stood  a  neat  hotel,  to  which  we  were  urgently 
invited  ;  but  the  time  for  rest  and  refreshment  had  not 
come,  and  we  launched  our  tiny  craft  once  more,  and  now 
we  were  on  the  bosom  of  the  Upper  Saranac. 

This  is  the  queen  of  the  lakes.  It  is  nine  miles  long, 
with  irregular  shores,  wooded  points  putting  out  and  mak- 
ing lovely  nooks  and  bays,  with  frequent  isles  floating,  as 
it  were,  on  the  surface.  Some  of  these  islands  have  tra- 
ditions hanging  around  them,  and  one  of  them  will  be 
pointed  out  for  years  to  come  as  the  scene  of  a  tragical 
event  that  happened  upon  it  this  very  season.  At  the 
close  of  a  very  fine  day  last  spring,  a  man  and  his  wife 
had  rowed  out  to  the  island,  and  were  sitting  near  the 
shore  enjoying  the  sunset.     A  gentleman  out  on  the  lake 


THE    ADIRONDACKS.  1 23 

with  his  guide  and  boat  espied  something  white  on  the 
island,  and  the  guide  insisted  that  it  was  a  loon.  The 
gentleman  was  not  satisfied,  but  the  guide  took  his  rifle 
and  fired,  killing  the  woman  on  the  spot. 

A  map  of  this  wilderness  country  will  show  a  hundred 
and  more  lakes  to  the  west  of  the  one  we  are  now  pass- 
ing through,  and  weeks  as  easily  as  days  might  be  spent 
in  going  from  one  to  another;  but  the  journey  would  be- 
come tedious  perhaps  from  sameness.  Sweets  cloy.  This 
chain  of  lakes  is  "  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out."  It 
is  a  system  of  lakes,  rather  than  a  chain.  Raquette  Lake 
is  the  largest  of  them  all,  with  a  shore  of  ninety  miles,  and 
it  is  1800  feet  above  the  sea,  and  the  Blue  Mountain  rises 
east  of  it  4000  feet  high,  with  a  lake  of  the  same  name  at 
its  foot,  esteemed  the  Pearl  of  the  Wilderness.  Raquette 
River  enters  Long  Lake,  sixteen  miles  long,  and  coming 
out  of  it,  is  navigable  for  thirty  miles,  and  then  enters 
Tupper's  Lake,  more  celebrated  for  its  picturesque  beauty 
than  any  of  the  many  around  it.  When  the  river  leaves 
this  lake  again  it  rolls  its  augmented  volume  out  of  the 
wilderness  into  the  fertile  fields  of  St.  Lawrence  County. 
Thus  the  whole  length  and  breadth  of  this  strange  country 
may  be  traversed  by  boats  so  light  as  to  be  easily  carried 
on  the  shoulders  of  a  man.  When  I  had  reached  the 
lower  end  of  the  Saranac  Lake,  my  guide  drew  the  boat 
upon  the  land,  and  taking  a  yoke  fitted  for  his  shoulders 
and  neck,  put  it  across  the  middle  of  the  boat;  then,  lying 
upon  the  ground,  pulled  the  boat  over  so  that  the  shoulder 
yoke  came  to  its  place,  and,  rising  up,  had  the  boat  over  his 
head  and  slanting  down  his  back  ;  he  walked  off  with  it  a 
few  hundred  rods,  and  deposited  it  in  the  Saranac  River. 

Here  is  Bartlett's,  a  very  comfortable  hotel — a  great 
resort  for  sportsmen.     It  is  not  approached  by  any  land 


124  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

carriage — its  only  path  being  through  the  lakes  by  boat. 
I  dined  here  alone,  the  company  being  all  out  in  the 
forests  and  on  the  waters.  The  dinner  was  splendid: 
trout,  with  egg  sauce  that  any  hotel  in  New  York  might 
be  proud  of,  and  venison  such  as  Sydney  Smith's  epicu- 
rean neighbor  never  tasted. 

Launching  our  boat  upon  the  Saranac  at  its  first  issue 
from  the  lake,  we  shot  down  the  stream.  It  would  be  a  ter- 
rible journey,  but  how  grand  to  pursue  it  through  lakes  and 
rapids,  and  cataracts  and  mountain  gorges  and  fertile 
plains,  in  the  midst  of  millions  of  lumber  rushing  amain 
down,  till  at  last,  after  a  descent  of  1500  feet,  it  empties 
into  Lake  Champlain  away  off  at  Plattsburg.  We  were 
carried  along  but  a  few  miles  into  Round  Lake,  and 
through  that  into  the  broad,  deep,  swift  current  of  the 
river,  which,  with  little  aid  of  oars,  swept  us  rapidly  on. 
After  touching  at  the  shore  to  drink  from  a  spring  which 
was  indicated  by  a  board,  on  which  was  written  "  Jacob's 
Well,"  we  were  soon  ushered  into  the  Lower  Saranac 
Lake.  A  steady  pull  at  the  oars,  at  the  close  of  a  long 
day's  rowing,  when  my  guide  might  well  be  well  worn, 
brought  us  in  an  hour  to  the  eastern  end  of  it.  Just  as 
I  emerged  from  the  lake,  and  at  the  verge  of  the  forest, 
I  encountered  a  bear.  Instantly  he  rose  upon  his  hind 
legs  and  thrust  out  his  fore-paws,  as  if  he  were  seeking  a 
prime  dinner.  I  thought  of  my  revolver,  but  it  was  fifty 
miles  away;  of  my  rifle,  but  it  was  in  my  study  at  home. 
He  would  not  bear  with  me  while  I  sought  them  to  bore 
him.  Just  as  he  made  a  plunge  toward  me,  a  chain  that 
went  from  his  neck  to  a  tree  restrained  him.  That  chain 
of  circumstances  saved  me,  and  made  me  sure  that  he 
was  not  a  beast  to  be  feared.  We  are  often  frightened 
at  bears  as  harmless  as  this. 


THE  ADIRONDACKS.  1 25 

AMONG  THE  GUIDES. 

The  bear  was  at  Martin's.  I  spent  the  night  at  Mar- 
tin's. It  is  the  largest  hotel,  except  Paul  Smith's,  in  the 
Adirondacks.  Sportsmen  and  others  often  make  this  the 
first  point  on  coming  to  the  woods.  Paul  Smith's  is  the 
more  civilized.     This  is  rougher,  but  very  comfortable. 

An  outer  court — a  covered  passage  between  the  house 
and  the  offices,  quarters  for  the  guides  and  dogs — affords 
a  breezy  lounge,  and  here  in  the  cool  of  the  day  the  com- 
pany, tired  with  the  day's  work,  enjoy  the  air  and  rest 
One  of  the  guides  having  been  suddenly  taken  sick  on 
the  lakes,  was  brought  up  in  the  arms  of  his  comrades, 
and  a  crowd  pressed  about  him.  No  physician  being  on 
hand,  I  took  the  case,  but  the  regular  practice — a  stiff 
glass  of  brandy — anticipated  my  prescriptions,  and  the 
man  was  better  in  the  morning. 

This  incident  led  one  of  the  guides  to  sit  down  on 
the  steps  at  my  feet  and  beguile  the  evening  with  in- 
formation about  the  country,  with  which  he  had  been 
familiar  from  his  childhood.  He  thought  but  very  little 
of  it  as  a  resort  for  consumptives,  though  many  of  them 
come  here  and  go  away  nothing  better,  but  a  great  deal 
worse.  He  told  me  a  sad  story  of  a  young  man  brought 
in  by  his  father,  who  doted  on  him  with  the  "  love  of  a 
mother" — as  if  that  is  more  than  a  father's,  as  it  is  not; 
he  tended'  the  sick  boy  in  camp,  and  ministered  to  him  as 
well  as  he  could,  but  the  rough  life  of  the  woods  is  not 
for  sick  people.  It  makes  well  ones  better ;  men  who 
have  been  worn  down  with  work  at  home,  brain  work  es- 
pecially, they  come  here  and  recruit  splendidly.  But  the 
sick  boy  went  home  to  die,  and  sick  people  would  do 
well,  if  they  do  not  get  well,  by  staying  away  from  these 


I26  UNDER    THE   TREES. 

woods  and  waters.  And  then  my  talking  friend  very 
easily  wandered  on  to  telling  me  of  a  family  in  his  native 
town,  in  Essex  County,  who  had  the  consumption  as  a 
family  inheritance,  and  he  dwelt  tenderly  on  one  of  them 
— "  She  was  only  seventeen  years  old,  as  bright  as  a  sil- 
ver dollar  and  as  pretty  as  a  doll ;  her  lips  were  white, 
and  her  hair  was  yellow,  and  her  eyes  were  blue,  and  we 
did  not  want  her  to  die.  And  she  did  not  want  to,  but 
she  said  it  would  be  just  as  well,  and  she  would  not  fret; 
but  the  sweet  little  thing  kind  o'  melted  away  like,  and 
just  went  to  sleep  and  never  waked  up  ag'in." 

"  Will  she  never  wake  up  again  ?"  I  said,  softly. 

"  Well,  now,  Mister,  you  put  it  to  me,  I  know  she  will ; 
but  it  was  a  good  many  years  ago,  when  I  was  a  younger 
man  than  what  I  am  now,  and  she  has  slept  on,  and  it 
has  never  been  as  light  in  the  world  to  me  as  it  was  be- 
fore she  went  out.  But  the  minister  said  at  her  funeral 
— and  I  never  forgot  how  it  sounded,  as  he  stood  by  the 
coffin,  and  said — 'The  maiden  is  not  dead,  but  sleepeth.' 
Do  you  think  she  will  ever  come  to  us  ag'in  ?" 

"  I  think  she  is  not  far  from  you  now,  and  that  she  is 
happier  when  you  are  good  ;  and  that  by-and-by  you  will 
pass  away  into  the  spirit  world  where  she  is,  and,  if  you 
are  pure  and  true,  that  you  and  she  will  be  perfectly  bless- 
ed forever.  Did  you  ever  hear  these  words,  '  He  that 
liveth  and  believeth  shall  never  die  V  " 

"  To  be  sure  I  have ;  but  we  shall  all  die.'' 

"And  yet  not  perish:  die  as  these  lakes  and  woods 
die  in  winter ;  but  spring  comes,  and  every  lake  laughs 
in  the  noontide  sun,  and  every  woodland  and  meadow 
bursts  into  living  beauty.  You  have  seen  it  a  score  of 
times." 

"Yes,  and  more;  and  I  do  like  to  hear  you  talk." 


THE   ADIRONDACKS.  1 27 

"  But  you  brought  it  on ;  now  go  on  with  your  own 
story.     What  good  does  any  one  get  from  coming  here  ?" 

"  Rheumatism  gits  cured.  The  guides  never  have  it — 
I  ought  not  to  say  never,  for  I  had  it  once  myself,  and  I 
put  a  heap  of  balsam  branches  over  the  live  coals  of  fire, 
and  lay  down  on  it  and  went  to  sleep,  aching  to  kill  with 
the  rheumatism.  The  boughs  did  not  blaze,  but  they 
burned  some,  and  the  smoke  came  up  through,  with  the 
smell  of  the  balsam,  and  it  steamed  away  all  the  aches 
and  pains,  and  I  never  had  a  touch  of  it  after  that." 

"You  think  it  does  a  man  good,  then,  to  sleep  in  a 
swamp  when  he  has  the  rheumatism  ?" 

"  Not  as  a  general  thing ;  but  if  he  will  sleep  on  pine 
boughs,  spruce,  hemlock,  balsam  of  fir,  and  such  like,  and 
keep  dry,  he  will  git  over  the  rheumatism,  sure." 

This  friendly  guide  talked  to  me  an  hour  or  more,  in 
the  dark,  and  seemed  pleased  to  have  a  ready  listener. 
He  told  me  much  of  the  agricultural  productions  of  the 
lower  country,  and  of  his  hopes  to  be  done  with  guiding 
travelers  and  going  back  to  guiding  the  plow.  It  was  a 
curious  group  by  which  I  was  surrounded  :  rough  but  in- 
telligent men,  some  lying  flat  on  their  backs,  others  half 
reclining,  and  some  sitting  on  the  steps,  all  attentive  to 
the  talk.  In  the  course  of  it  I  managed  to  say  some 
things  they  may  think  of  afterward. 

Late,  even  for  me,  I  went  to  bed.  It  had  been  a  long 
and  crowded  day.  Seven  distinctly  marked  and  beauti- 
ful lakes,  deep,  primitive  forests,  with  all  the  wondrously 
novel  scenery  of  this  strange  wilderness,  were  now  in  my 
mind.  As  I  was  floating  through  it,  the  day  seemed  to 
me  more  like  the  dream  into  which  I  was  sinking  than 
any  land  or  water  journey  I  had  ever  made.  But  the 
dream  was  brighter,  just  as  the  ideal  rarely  fails  to  exceed 
the  real.     I  slept,  and  was  among  the  isles  of  the  blest. 


128  UNDER  THE  TREES. 

AMONG  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

At  six  in  the  morning,  after  a  hasty  but  hearty  break- 
fast, I  mounted  a  stage  wagon,  and  was  brought  down 
into  the  town  of  North  Elba,  made  famous  as  the  resi- 
dence, and  now  the  grave,  of  John  Brown.  This  lies  off 
the  road,  and  the  stage  sometimes  goes  out  of  its  way  to 
enable  travelers  to  view  the  spot.  We  were  behind  time, 
and  the  driver  declined  the  extra  mile. 

North  Elba  has  a  little  village  on  a  wide  plain,  with 
such  surroundings  as  no  other  village  may  boast.  An 
amphitheatre  of  mountains,  some  of  them  the  highest  in 
the  State  of  New  York,  with  an  arc  of  sixty  miles  in  ex- 
tent, forms  on  one  side  the  magnificent  framework  in 
which  this  lonely  hamlet  sleeps.  The  gigantic  group  of 
mountains  is  the  Adirondack  region  proper.  Mounts 
Seward  and  Mclntyre  and  McMartin  can  be  seen  from 
almost  any  point,  and  Mount  Marcy — the  loftiest  of  them 
all  —  towers  in  its  vast  proportions,  well  deserving  the 
name  which  the  Indians  gave  it — The  Cloud  Splitter.  It 
is  5467  feet  high.  A  spring  is  on  the  very  pinnacle,  near 
a  rude  monument  raised  to  Mr.  Henderson,  of  Jersey 
City,  whose  death  is  still  remembered  and  mourned  by  a 
wide  circle  of  friends.  He  was  a  noble  Scotch  gentle- 
man, son-in-law  of  Archibald  Mclntyre,  and  while  en- 
gaged in  the  exploration  and  development  of  this  irbn  re- 
gion, he  was  killed  by  the  accidental  discharge  of  a  gun. 
The  little  lake  by  which  the  tragic  event  occurred  is 
named  Calamity,  and  a  beautiful  monument,  wrought  far 
away,  was  brought  at  great  expense,  and  erected  upon  the 
spot  where  Mr.  Henderson  met  his  lamented  death. 

In  this  town  of  North  Elba  is  Lake  Placid,  which  is 
celebrated  as  one  of  the  most  lovely  of  all  the  waters,  and 


THE   ADIRONDACKS.  1 29 

for  a  very  remarkable  lakelet  that  is  close  by,  and  joined 
by  a  narrow  channel ;  through  this  channel  the  water 
flows  two  or  three  minutes  from  the  lake  into  the  pond; 
an  interval  of  five  seconds  follows,  with  no  apparent  mo- 
tion of  the  water ;  after  this  it  flows  back  into  the  lake 
for  two  or  three  minutes,  and  this  ebbing  and  flowing 
continue  perpetually. 

The  Au  Sable  River,  after  leaving  Lake  Placid,  forgets 
its  source  and  becomes  raging  and  rapid,  actually  tearing 
its  way  through  the  mountains,  and  by  finding  or  making 
a  passage,  gives  to  the  traveler  the  White  Face  Pass,  or 
Wilmington  Notch,  one  of  the  grandest  objects  in  nature. 
The  narrow  road  by  the  side  of  the  river  is  horrible.  But 
on  each  hand  a  precipice,  almost  perpendicular,  rises  two 
thousand  feet  high.  At  noon  we  passed  through  it,  and 
even  at  that  hour  we  were  in  deep  shadow,  awed  by  the 
grandeur  of  the  scene.  In  successive  ages  huge  rocks 
have  been  hurled  from  these  towering  heights ;  perhaps 
the  earth  itself  has  trembled  till  they  fell ;  the  bolts  of 
heaven  have  shattered  them  into  fragments,  and  sent  them 
tumbling  into  the  abyss ;  but  the  battlements  still  stand 
in  silent  majesty,  impregnable  and  enduring  as  the  globe. 
White  Face  Mountain  is  easily  and  constantly  ascended 
from  Wilmington,  and  from  its  summit  the  best  view  of 
the  region  can  be  obtained.  My  days  for  climbing  are 
over.  My  ambition  is  satisfied.  No  steeple  tempts  me  to 
aspire.  I  do  not  expect  to  climb  another  "  while  life  and 
breath  and  being  last." 

But  the  mountain  region  is  the  glory  of  this  country. 
More  than  two  hundred  distinct  peaks  may  be  counted. 
And  they  are  so  compacted  that  their  bases  sometimes 
touch.  So  wildly  disjointed  and  irregular  is  the  system 
of  mountains,  it  stands  as  though  an  ocean  tossed  by 

I 


130  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

tempest  had  been  suddenly  congealed,  and  these  strange 
heights  had  in  ages  following  become  clothed  and  in 
their  right  mind.  It  has  «been  only  partially  explored, 
but  some  of  the  passes  have  become  famous,  and  they 
are  more  and  more  frequently  visited  by  tourists.  Many 
who  have  come  here  from  Switzerland  and  New  Hamp- 
shire are  in  ecstasies  over  or  under  the  Adirondacks. 
One  of  the  best  of  guides  descants  on  the  region  a  few 
miles  only  from  Wilmington — Keene  Flats — a  point  which 
the  tourist  to  the  mountains  should  be  sure  to  make  : 

"  There  is  not  another  place  in  the  state,  and  probably 
but  a  few  on  the  globe,  where  there  is  so  great  a  variety 
of  scenery  in  so  small  a  compass  as  is  unfolded  from  the 
lower  end  of  the  Keene  Flats  to  three  miles  above  the 
Upper  Au  Sable  Pond.  In  no  equal  space  can  there  be 
found  so  great  a  variety  of  soil  and  climate  which  will 
yield  any  fruit  grown  North  of  Albany.  Then  its  abun- 
dant groves  of  elm  and  maple,  and  the  clear,  cool  fount- 
ains, render  the  whole  surroundings  a  perfect  summer 
bower,  six  miles  long  and  one  wide. 

"  If  one  want  a  little  exercise,  let  him  climb  Baxter 
Mountain,  and  he  will  see  the  whole  Flats  as  if  he  looked 
from  a  high  balcony  upon  the  street  below.  If  his  taste 
incline  him  to  streams,  cascades,  and  waterfalls,  he  can 
find  them  in  almost  every  form,  from  one  foot  to  three 
hundred  feet  high.  If  he  is  desirous  to  ascend  mountains, 
there  is  a  trail  to  Hopkins's  Peak,  the  Giant,  Camel's 
Hump,  and  Hurricane.  If  he  wish  to  ascend  Mount 
Marcy,  he  can  go  through  the  woods  by  John's  Brook  and 
trail  some  eight  or  ten  miles,  or  by  the  Ponds  twelve 
miles,  and  only  six  of  this  distance  by  walking.  If  he  is 
disposed  to  make  the  round  trip  (as  many  never  do),  he 
will  go  to  the  Ponds,  thence  over  Marcy  to  Lake  Colden, 


THE    ADIRONDACKS.  131 

and  by  a  side  trip  to  Avalanche  Lake  and  back  to  Col- 
den  j  thence  by  Calamity  Pond  to  Upper  Adirondack. 
Rest  there  a  day  or  two,  if  required,  and  then  through 
the  Indian  Pass  to  Blin's  or  Scott's.  The  course  may  be 
reversed,  but  from  North  Elba  it  is  more  difficult  and  un- 
certain as  to  boats. 

"  I  have  made  this  trip  in  four  days,  and  have  taken 
twelve.  The  trip  embraces  the  most  wild  mountain  and 
gorge  scenery  in  the  region  —  Lower  Pond,  Panther's 
Gorge,  Lake  Avalanche,  and  Indian  Pass.  It  also  takes 
in  the  most  beautiful  lakes — Au  Sable  Pond,  Lakes  Col- 
den  and  Avalanche,  Calamity  Pond,  Lakes  Henderson 
and  Sanford,  and  as  many  other  wild  scenes  as  he  can 
imagine." 

A  stage  ride  through  the  White  Face  Notch  has  in  it 
some  of  the  elements  of  the  sublime,  for  the  road  is  terri- 
ble. It  is  better  in  this,  the  dry  season,  than  at  any  other 
time,  and  now  it  is  as  bad  as  bad  can  well  be.  Wrecks  of 
wagons  by  the  narrow  roadside  told  us  the  fate  of  trav- 
elers who  had  preceded  us.  Two  young  ladies,  the  day 
before,  had  been  obliged  to  tramp  four  miles  in  the  blaz- 
ing sun  of  noonday,  while  the  driver  rode  the  horses  to 
Wilmington,  leaving  the  dilapidated  vehicle  in  the  Notch. 
Our  ride  was  safe,  but  slow.  The  horses  had  a  long  pull 
of  it,  and  a  strong  pull,  but  brought  us  to  the  Point  of 
Rocks  in  season  for  the  five  o'clock  train  for  Plattsburg. 

To  take  a  seat  in  a  comfortable  car  on  the  rails,  after 
having  been  ten  hours  jolted  in  a  rough  wagon  over  the 
roughest  road  that  bears  such  a  name,  was  a  relief  too 
great  for  words.  But  the  ride  was  through  a  grand  region 
of  country,  the  scenery  richly  repaying  the  traveler  for  his 
toils.  To  me  it  was  but  pleasant  exercise,  the  fatigue 
being  speedily  forgotten,  while  the  memory  of  the  magnif- 


132  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

icence  of  nature  remains  as  a  perpetual  refreshment  and 
delight.  As  I  drew  the  contrast  continually  between  this 
wilderness,  out  of  which  I  had  come,  and  that  artificial 
wilderness  of  shops  and  palaces  where  I  must  soon  resort 
and  abide,  the  oft-quoted  lines  of  Dr.  Beattie,  in  the  "  Min- 
strel," would  come  to  me,  and  I  repeated  them  aloud— 

"  Oh,  how  canst  thou  renounce  the  boundless  store 
Of  charms  which  Nature  to  her  votary  yields  ?— 
The  warbling  woodland,  the  resounding  shore, 
The  pomp  of  groves  and  garniture  of  fields ; 
All  that  the  genial  ray  of  morning  gilds, 
And  all  that  echoes  to  the  song  of  even ; 
All  that  the  mountain's  sheltering  bosom  shields, 
And  all  the  dread  magnificence  of  heaven — 
Oh  !  how  canst  thou  renounce  and  hope  to  be  forgiven  ?"' 

For  I  had  now  seen  somewhat  of  the  lakes  and  mount- 
ains of  the  Adirondacks,  and  had  endured  no  more  hard- 
ship than  attends  all  mountain  travel :  had  slept  every 
night  in  an  excellent  hotel,  had  three  civilized  meals  every 
day,  had  worn  the  same  clothing  that  I  wear  at  home,  had 
not  been  bitten  by  a  musquito  or  a  fly,  had  encountered 
none  of  the  horrors  of  the  wilderness  described  by  pre- 
ceding tourists — the  only  bear  being  chained — and  had 
been  less  than  a  week  in  performing  the  journey.  It  is 
true  I  did  not  assassinate  a  deer.  That  exploit  I  shall 
not  be  able  to  boast  of  at  the  social  board  during  the 
coming  winter.  My  brethren  of  the  pulpit  and  the  press, 
who  know  how  to  draw  a  longer  bow  than  I,  have  all  the 
honors  of  the  chase. 

They  who  have  not  visited  this  region  of  our  own  coun- 
try, as  I  had  not,  but  have  been  over  all  Europe  and  into 
Asia  and  Africa  in  search  of  the  beautiful  and  the  sublime, 
have  left  yet  unseen  and  therefore  unenjoyed  some  of  the 


THE   ADIRONDACKS.  133 

most  singular  and  interesting  scenery  in  the  world.  The 
mere  map  of  the  country  is  a  curiosity.  It  lies  before 
me  with  the  mountains  piled  up  on  one  side  of  it,  and  the 
one  hundred  lakes  on  the  other  half  of  the  sheet,  with  the 
many  rivers  streaming  among  the  hills.  But  the  forests 
are  not  on  the  map,  and  the  sun  does  not  light  up  the 
world  and  make  all  these  woods  and  waters  marvelous  in 
their  native  solitude  and  grandeur.  No  such  loneliness 
ever  dwelt  around  me:  a  pleasing,  sacred,  holy  peace,  not 
a  painful  solitude,  as  if  lost  or  far  from  friends  ;  but  as  if 
the  Lord  God  were  walking  in  his  garden  unseen  of  man ; 
and  I  alone,  yet  not  alone,  because  he  was  there.  Just 
about  the  smallest  nonsense  in  the  wide  world  is  that 
which  ignores  God  as  a  living,  present,  pervading  Being 
and  Power  in  the  midst  of  his  own  creation.  There 
might  be  some  excuse  for  it  in  the  city  which  man  is  said 
to  have  made.  This  great  Babylon  had  a  builder,  and 
men  saw  him,  and  they  called  him  a  god.  Art  confesses 
and  proclaims  an  artist.  No  fool  was  ever  so  much  an 
idiot  as  to  suppose  that  Venus  in  the  Florentine  tribune>t 
and  Apollo  in  the  Vatican,  sprang  from  the  Parian  quarry 
without  hands,  and  clothed  themselves  with  beauty  that 
charms  the  sense  and  makes  their  memory  a  lifelong  joy. 
Our  living  artists  paint  Niagara  and  the  Yosemite  Vale,  and 
no  one  dreams  that  the  paints  came  into  color  by  elective 
affinity  or  chance,  and  then  meandered  along  the  canvas 
into  forms  of  majestic  beauty  that  bear  some  faint  image 
of  the  forests  of  the  Almighty,  his  rainbow  and  cataracts. 
Yet  these  admiring  art  critics,  and  others  greater  than 
they,  will  walk  in  the  midst  of  nature,  radiant  with  loveli- 
ness and  glory,  compared  with  which  this  art  work  is  but 
the  sport  of  children  playing  with  brush  and  chisel,  and 
pretend  to  believe  that  all  this  comes  of  itself:  that  no 


134  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

great  Architect  planned  and  spanned  the  arch  of  the 
heavens  and  set  the  sun  in  the  firmament ;  that  no  skill 
of  the  artist  painted  these  lilies  with*  living  white  and 
green,  and  bathed  these  mountains  and  lakes,  forests  and 
shores,  with  exquisite  loveliness,  whose  only  but  sufficient 
end  appears  to  be  the  pleasure  of  those  who  come  to  see 
and  admire.  The  sense  of  sublimity  has  not  indeed 
possessed  me  so  fully  as  that  of  beauty  while  here,  and 
awe  has  not  shadowed  the  soul  in  the  midst  of  the 
wondrous  loveliness  of  wild  woodland  scenes  ;  but  so 
little  of  man's  work  is  around,  and  so  much  of  God's,  that 
I  have  again  and  again  fallen  back  upon  Coleridge  in  the 
"Vale  of  Chamounix,"and  rehearsed  his  great  psalm  as  the 
only  fitting  interpretation  of  the  believing  soul  when  Nat- 
ure, in  naked  majesty  and  beauty,  stands  before  it,  and  it 
longs  for  words  in  which  to  float  as  part  of  the  living  uni- 
verse praising  its  animating  Maker.  Read  this  with  me, 
and  our  tour  among  the  mountains,  lakes,  and  waterfalls 
of  the  Adirondacks  will  be  closed  : 

"  Awake,  my  soul !  not  only  passive  praise 
Thou  owest !   not  alone  these  swelling  tears, 
Mute  thanks,  and  secret  ecstasy !     Awake, 
Voice  of  sweet  song  !     Awake,  my  Heart,  awake  ! 
Green  vales  and  icy  cliffs,  all  join  my  hymn. 

"  Thou  first  and  chief,  sole  sovran  of  the  Vale ! 
O  struggling  with  the  darkness  all  the  night, 
And  visited  all  night  by  troops  of  stars, 
Or  when  they  climb  the  sky  or  when  they  sink  : 
Companion  of  the  morning-star  at  dawn, 
Thyself  Earth's  rosy  star,  and  of  the  dawn 
Co-herald :  wake,  O  wake,  and  utter  praise  ! 
Who  sank  thy  sunless  pillars  deep  in  Earth? 
Who  filled  thy  countenance  with  rosy  light? 
Who  made  thee  parent  of  perpetual  streams  ? 


THE   ADIRONDACK^.  135 

"  And  you,  ye  five  wild  torrents  fiercely  glad ! 
Who  called  you  forth  from  night  and  utter  death, 
From  dark  and  icy  caverns  called  you  forth, 
Down  those  precipitous,  black,  jagged  rocks, 
Forever  shattered  and  the  same  forever? 
Who  gave  you  your  invulnerable  life, 
Your  strength,  your  speed,  your  fury,  and  your  joy, 
Unceasing  thunder  and  eternal  foam  ? 
And  who  commanded  (and  the  silence  came), 
Here  let  the  billows  stiffen,  and  have  rest? 

"  Ye  ice-falls !   ye  that  from  the  mountain's  brow 
Adown  enormous  ravines  slope  amain — 
Torrents,  methinks,  that  heard  a  mighty  voice, 
And  stopped  at  once  amid  their  maddest  plunge  ! 
Motionless  torrents  !   silent  cataracts  ! 
Who  made  you  glorious  as  the  gates  of  Heaven 
Beneath  the  keen  full  moon  ?     Who  bade  the  sun 
Clothe  you  with  rainbows  ?     Who,  with  living  flowers 
Of  loveliest  blue,  spread  garlands  at  your  feet  ? — 
God  !  let  the  torrents,  like  a  shout  of  nations, 
Answer  !  and  let  the  ice-plains  echo,  God ! 
God !  sing  ye  meadow-streams  with  gladsome  voice ! 
Ye  pine-groves,  with  your  soft  and  soul-like  sounds ! 
And  they  too  have  a  voice,  yon  piles  of  snow, 
And  in  their  perilous  fall  shall  thunder,  God  ! 

"Ye  living  flowers  that  skirt  the  eternal  frost! 
Ye  wild  goats  sporting  round  the  eagle's  nest ! 
Ye  eagles,  playmates  of  the  mountain-storm  ! 
Ye  lightnings,  the  dread  arrows  of  the  clouds ! 
Ye  signs  and  wonders  of  the  element ! 
Utter  forth  God,  and  fill  the  hills  with  praise ! 

"  Thou,  too,  hoar  Mount !  with  thy  sky-pointing  peaks, 
Oft  from  whose  feet  the  avalanche,  unheard, 
Shoots  downward,  glittering  through  the  pure  serene 
Into  the  depth  of  clouds,  that  veil  thy  breast — 
Thou  too  again,  stupendous  Mountain  !  thou 
That  as  I  raise  my  head,  awhile  bowed  low 
In  adoration,  upward  from  thy  base 


136  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

Slow  traveling  with  dim  eyes  suffused  with  tears, 
Solemnly  seemest,  like  a  vapory  cloud, 
To  rise  before  me — Rise,  O  ever  rise, 
Rise  like  a  cloud  of  incense  from  the  Earth ! 
Thou  kingly  Spirit  throned  among  the  hills, 
Thou  dread  embassador  from  Earth  to  Heaven, 
Great  hierarch !  tell  thou  the  silent  sky, 
And  tell  the  stars,  and  tell  yon  rising  sun, 
Earth,  with  her  thousand  voices,  praises  God." 


XVI. 

WITH  THE  OLD  MAN  OF  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

Leaving  the  Adirondack^,  crossing  Lake  Champlain 
and  Vermont,  I  sought  the  White  Hills  of  New  Hamp- 
shire. By  rail  to  Wells  River  Junction,  and  then  to  Lit- 
tleton, was  a  charming  ride. 

That  brother  of  mine  who  was  fishing  in  the  Adiron- 
dacks  so  marvelously  a  month  before  was  waiting  with 
his  carriage  for  me  at  the  foot  of  the  mountains.  Leav- 
ing the  stages  to  come  at  their  leisure,  we  wound  our  way 
along  and  up,  easily  beating  them  two  hours  in  twelve 
miles.  Nearly  half-way  we  pass  through  the  straggling 
village  of  Franconia,  where  the  mercury  falls  lower  in 
winter  and  gets  higher  in  summer  than  in  any  other  place 
in  the  country.  It  has  been  sometimes  supposed  they 
have  thermometers  of  peculiar  construction,  to  produce 
such  remarkable  results;  but  they  claim  to  use  Fahren- 
heit only,  and  to  reach  400  below  without  much  incon- 
venience, when  at  Boston  or  New  York  the  coldest  inhab- 
itant can  not  boast  of  any  thing  below  io°.  The  village 
bears  the  same  name  with  the  Franconia  Mountains,  sep- 
arated from  the  White  by  a  narrow  defile ;  but,  in  fact, 
the  Franconia  and  the  White  are  parts  of  the  same  sys- 
tem of  hills,  called  often  the  Switzerland  of  America  by 
people  who  never  saw  the  Alps.  We  are  now  ascending 
the  heights.  Six  miles  of  a  winding,  narrow,  wooded 
road,  toiling  upward,  we  beguile  the  way  with  gentle  dis- 


138  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

course.  I  pull  out  a  book  and  read  of  the  joys  that  are 
before  me.  The  gushing  Eastman,  who  has  illustrated 
the  region,  chants  the  praises  of  Franconia  in  such  glow- 
ing  words  as  these  : 

"  Here  is  rest,  here  is  comfort.  Beneath  the  shadow 
of  these  mountains  the  weary  soul  finds  composure." 
[Just  the  place  for  poor  worn-out  writers  to  seek.]  "  Self- 
ishness and  worldliness  are  rebuked."  [Of  course,  the 
bears  and  bulls  of  Wall  Street  will  not  come  here  to  be 
rebuked.]  "The  most  thoughtless  are  hushed  to  reflec- 
tion, and  a  better  understanding  of  life  grows  up  in  the 
midst  of  Nature's  grand  instructions."  [I  can  not  devel- 
op such  thoughts  out  of  the  scenes  around  me,  and  must 
keep  on  quoting.  Our  guide  continues — he  means  you 
and  me  now,  when  he  says] — "  We  do  not  suppose  our 
tourist  is  in  quest  of  mere  pleasure  :  we  believe  him  to 
be  a  better  and  nobler  man  than  to  spend  his  days  thus. 
He  is  open  to  every  good  influence  that  will  make  life 
more  rich  and  beautiful  and  fair.  There  is  no  better  in- 
fluence than  that  of  which  he  will  be  sensible  in  the  still 
retreat  of  Franconia." 

And  with  such  soothing  and,  at  the  same  time,  cheering 
assurances,  we  reached  the  strange  plateau  on  which,  in 
the  midst  of  Franconia  Notch,  stands  the  Profile  House. 
A  plain  of  a  few  cleared  acres  in  extent,  in  a  gorge  that 
admits  the  passage  of  a  narrow  carriage-way,  mountains 
two  thousand  feet  high  rising  almost  perpendicularly  on 
each  side,  with  two  lovely  lakes  lying  under  the  hills  and 
skirted  with  forests,  has  been  chosen  as  a  summer  resort 
and  the  site  of  a  magnificent  hotel,  in  which  five  hundred 
guests  find  refreshment  and  a  cool  retreat  from  the  torrid 
heats  that  blight  the  world  below.  It  is  never  hot  at  the 
Profile  House. 


WITH  THE  OLD  MAN  OF  THE  MOUNTAINS.  139 

It  is  not  always  fair  weather  up  here.  To  say  that  it 
does  not  rain  frequently  would  not  be  an  honest  report 
if  one  were  keeping  a  record  of  the  season.  Indeed, 
there  is  a  great  tendency  in  the  direction  of  rain,  and  the 
rain  has  a  decided  tendency  to  come  down.  Clouds  rare- 
ly get  into  this  cool  gorge  without  being  condensed  into 
showers.  But  they  are  short,  and  the  bright  shining  after 
the  rain  is  more  enjoyable  always  than  if  it  had  not  rained 
at  all. 

The  huge  crag  at  which  we  are  gazing  as  we  sit  upon 
the  piazza  is  called  Eagle  Cliff,  and  one  never  wearies  of 
its  contemplation.  Like  the  ocean,  mountains  are  ever 
new  to  one  who  thinks  while  he  sees.  They  would  be 
moral  teachers,  if  human  nature  could  be  reached  by  such 
influences.  It  is  probably  never  touched  by  them.  So 
far  as  the  tables  show,  there  is  no  marked  difference  in 
the  moral  character  of  people  who  live  in  and  out  of  such 
scenery  as  this.  Climate  has  its  effect,  but  the  scenery 
none.  Yet  the  thought  is  led  up  by  these  mountains  to 
the  everlasting,  as  the  sea  speaks  of  the  infinite.  Both 
are  sermons.  "  Thy  righteousness  is  like  the  great  mount- 
ains," exclaimed  the  Jewish  bard,  who  had  never  seen 
any  thing  greater  than  Carmel  or  Horeb.  And  there  is 
a  little  of  the  superstitious  mingled  with  the  sentiment 
that  is  inspired  by  the  profile  of  the  Old  Man  of  the 
Mountain,  the  presiding  genius  of  this  Notch  and  the 
grand  feature  of  the  place.  I  have  seen  the  Sphinx  by 
the  side  of  the  Pyramid  of  Cheops — a  solemn,  majestic, 
human  face  looking  over  the  valley  of  the  Nile,  as  if  within 
the  stone  resided  the  divinity  of  that  mysterious  land. 
But  the  Sphinx  was  carved  by  the  hand  of  man.  It  had 
a  maker  like  ourselves,  and  we  are  therefore  greater  than 
the  Sphinx. 


140  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

But  there,  away  up  against  the  clouds,  nearly  two  thou- 
sand feet  in  the  air,  out  upon  the  crag  that  terminates 
Canon  Mountain,  itself  the  utmost  precipice,  far  away 
from  the  reach  of  human  ingenuity  or  human  daring — sol- 
itary in  repose,  sublime  in  its  awful  elevation — there  is  the 
mighty  human  face,  with  every  feature  as  distinct  and 
perfect  and  symmetrical  as  if  Thorwaldsen  had  come  to 
Franconia,  as  he  went  to  Lucerne,  to  carve  a  rock  into  an 
everlasting  monument.  One's  emotions  are  strange  as 
he  looks  upon  it  for  the  first  or  the  hundredth  time. 
Has  the  Old  Man,  as  the  face  is  called,  been  there  al- 
ways ?  Does  he  think  ?  At  the  beginning  of  this  cent- 
ury, when  the  path  was  cleared  through  the  Notch,  the 
face  of  the  Old  Man  was  seen,  looking  away  into  the  East, 
and  down  into  the  Pemigewasset  Valley  to  the  rising 
sun.  His  countenance  is  fixed,  for  it  has  never  changed 
in  the  century.  Millions  of  people  have  come  and  gone; 
the  natives  have  disappeared  ;  civilization  has  set  in  upon 
the  forests  ;  and  the  bears  have  yielded  to  the  incoming 
of  the  luxury  of  cities,  but  the  Old  Man  says — "  None  of 
these  things  move  me."  Often  the  clouds  hide  him  in 
impenetrable  gloom.  Again  the  mist  depends  from  his 
chin  like  a  heavy  gray  beard,  and  the  wind  sweeps  it 
back  from  his  forehead  as  if  his  hoar  locks  were  stream- 
ing in  the  gale.  Then  the  sun  lights  up  his  face  with  a 
smile  of  amazing  brightness  and  beauty,  and  his  lips  ap- 
pear to  be  parted,  as  though  he  were  about  to  address 
the  nations. 

The  awe  abates  when  we  go  to  another  point  of  ob- 
servation, and  see  that  the  face  is  not  carved  or  even 
formed  by  the  peculiar  shape  of  any  one  precipice  or 
rock,  but  is  the  accidental  result  of  the  happy  location  of 
several  crags  some  distance  apart,  which  happen  to  come 


WITH   THE   OLD   MAN   OF   THE   MOUNTAINS.  141 

into  such  lines  and  relations  that  at  one  particular  point 
of  observation  they  are  so  blended  as  to  form  the  outline 
of  the  human  face.  Then  the  wonder  becomes  greater 
that  it  should  be  a  face  at  all,  but  the  sense  of  its  pres- 
ence as  of  a  human  head  is  dissipated,  and  we  smile  at 
the  delusion  whose  strange  fascination  we  had  felt  be- 
fore. 

"  It  is  good  for  us  to  be  here,"  said  a  disciple  to  the 
Master,  on  the  top  of  a  mountain.  It  is  good  to  be  any 
where  with  him.  Let  us  stay  here  a  while  and  rest.  We 
are  above  the  world  while  in  it.  By-and-by,  all  too  soon, 
we  will  go  down  to  work. 

The  luxury  of  nothing  to  do  becomes  irksome  after  a 
while.  We  do  not  seek  it  as  much  as  we  ought.  Per- 
haps we  ought  not  to  work  so  much  and  so  hard  as  to 
need  it.  But  two  or  three  hundred  men  in  the  mount- 
ains, shut  up  in  a  tavern  for  a  month  or  more,  find  time 
heavy  on  their  hands,  and  must  resort  to  some  means  to 
kill  it. 

Here,  at  the  Profile  House,  we  have  few  out-of-door 
amusements.  The  mountains  are  so  close  upon  us,  pre 
cipitous  and  craggy,  that  no  ordinary  mortal  man  will  find 
entertainment  in  carrying  a  rifle  and  climbing  in  search 
of  game  that  has  long  since  fled  to  parts  unknown.  The 
fishing  is  good  in  the  little  lakes  that  are  close  by  the 
house,  and  a  few  of  the  guests  are  devoted  votaries  of  the 
rod.  Out  of  these  lakes  the  waters  find  their  way  through 
awful  gorges,  wild  ravines,  huge  rocks,  making  barriers 
over  which  the  torrents  tumble  in  their  dark  and  mad 
plunges  toward  the  sea.  The  adventurous  fisherman,  in 
love  with  the  sport,  not  counting  his  life  dear,  but  daring 
all  things  for  the  sake  of  what  he  calls  sport,  follows  these 
mountain  streams  adown  the  deep  abysses,  crossing  them 


142  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

at  times  astride  a  fallen  hemlock  which  spans  a  deep 
gulf  far  beneath  this  giddy  bridge  of  a  single,  shaky,  rot- 
ten tree ;  or  he  leaps  boldly  across  the  chasm,  as  did  the 
priest  with  the  maiden  on  the  St.  Gothard  Pass  in  the 
Alps ;  or  he  slides  down  the  slope  of  a  long  declivity,  too 
steep  for  him  to  walk,  too  far  for  a  jump,  and  brings  up 
below,  all  standing  on  the  flat  of  his  back. 

These  dangers  and  hardships  have  their  exhilarations, 
and  those  with  nerve  and  muscle  to  endure  them  are  re- 
warded, not  so  much  by  the  beautiful  fish  they  take  under 
such  difficulties,  as  by  the  health  and  strength  they  gath- 
er for  the  sterner  conflicts  which,  as  fishers  of  men  or 
workers  in  some  other  field  of  useful  labor,  they  must  en- 
counter when  the  play-spell  is  over. 

But  the  most  of  us  are  not  equal  to  such  amusements. 
We  could  not,  if  we  would,  attempt  them,  and  probably 
would  not  if  we  could.  To  sit  on  the  piazza,  with  one's 
heels  on  a  level  with  his  head,  smoking  a  cigar  and  talk- 
ing politics  or  stocks  with  a  friend,  is  the  chief  amusement 
of  the  average  American  taking  his  summer  vacation. 
Two  or  three  times  a  day  the  stages  arrive  with  loads  of 
new  prisoners,  and  their  arrival  is  a  new  topic  of  talk  for 
five  or  ten  minutes.  Perhaps  a  live  judge,  or  a  governor, 
or  a  candidate  has  come,  and  diverts  for  a  moment  the  cur- 
rent of  conversation,  which  soon  resumes  its  channel,  and 
flows  on  as  languidly  as  the  Passaic  seeking  the  sea.  A 
few,  to  whom  talk  is  tedious,  or  whose  talk  is  tedious,  cul- 
tivate whist.  In  the  middle  of  the  day,  and  day  after  day, 
and  all  day  long,  a  learned  judge,  a  learned  lawyer,  a  suc- 
cessful broker,  and  a  portly  railroad  president  sit  at  a  lit- 
tle table  and  silently,  solemnly,  and  earnestly  amuse  them- 
selves matching  bits  of  pasteboard,  on  which  are  grotesque 
pictures.     My  knowledge  of  the  art  and  science  of  cards 


WITH   THE    OLD   MAN    OF   THE    MOUNTAINS.  143 

is  just  equal  to  that  of  the  courtier  of  whom  the  king 
asked — 

"  Do  you  not  play  cards  ?" 

"  No,  your  majesty,  I  can  not  tell  a  king  from  a  knave." 

The  end  of  the  season  was  approaching,  and  the  few 
days  remaining  must  be  enlivened  with  something  to  make 
a  stir  in  the  mountains.  Practical  jokes  had  been  ex- 
hausted. Bogus  news  had  been  repeated  till  general 
skepticism  prevailed.  It  was  now  announced  that  the 
"  circus  "  was  coming,  and,  more  remarkable,  would  be 
exhibited  in  the  grand  parlor  of  the  Profile  House.  A 
circus  in  the  parlor  was  a  novelty — indeed,  without  a  par- 
allel. The  handbills  were  issued  in  flaming  capitals  and 
characters. 

The  performance  far  exceeded  the  promise.  It  is  quite 
impossible  to  imagine  fifty  (some  of  them)  grave  and  ven- 
erable men,  all  of  them  intelligent  and  cultivated  people, 
by  means  of  picturesque,  burlesque,  and  comical  dresses, 
shawls  and  feathers,  bear  and  buffalo  robes,  converting 
themselves  into  the  most  amusing  representations  of  ani- 
mals. At  the  appointed  hour  the  parlor  was  seated  with 
elegantly  dressed  ladies  and  gentlemen  and  children,  four 
hundred  in  number,  in  concentric  circles,  leaving  the  cen- 
tre of  the  long  room,  a  hundred  feet,  clear  for  the  perform- 
ance. At  the  sound  of  the  trumpet  the  cavalcade  entered: 
the  elephant  led  by  four  keepers  ;  then  the  bear  and  gi- 
raffes, and  Dr.  Darwin  followed,  leading  his  ancestor,  the 
ape ;  and  then  the  whole  retinue,  as  advertised ;  and  the 
several  parties  performed  their  roles  to  the  unbounded 
entertainment  of  the  applauding  assembly. 

At  another  time  it  was  announced  that  Horace  Greeley 
was  to  arrive  at  8  o'clock  in  the  evening,  and  would  be 
received  with  appropriate  honors  in  the  parlor.    The  stage 


144  UNDER   THE    TREES. 

arrived  at  the  time,  and  in  the  centre  of  it  sat  a  man  with 
a  mask  head  of  Greeley  on  his  shoulders,  twice  as  large 
as  life  and  twice  as  like.  An  escort  of  colored  citizens 
and  Indians  in  costume  attended  him.  The  band  played 
"  Hail  to  the  Chief,"  and  the  populace  greeted  him  with 
cheers.  He  was  led  to  the  parlor,  where  a  platform  was 
erected,  and  upon  it  stood  the  Governor  of  the  State  of 
New  York,  not  a  sham,  but  the  genuine  Governor,  who  in 
his  summer  travel,  fortunately,  was  a  guest  at  the  Profile 
House  when  this  reception  occurred.  The  Greeley  being 
presented,  thus  the  Governor  began  : 

"  Mr.  Greeley, — It  was  expected  that  Governor  Straw, 
of  New  Hampshire,  would  be  here  to-night  to  welcome  you 
to  this  one  of  your  many  birthplaces.  But  he  is  absent — 
straws  show  which  way  the  wind  blows — and  it  devolves 
upon  me,  the  Governor  of  the  state  next  to  New  Hamp- 
shire in  resources  and  population,  to  bid  you  welcome  to 
the  freedom  of  this  house,  from  the  office  to  the  bar.  This 
ceremony,  it  is  understood,  has  no  political  significance; 
indeed,  like  a  modern  popular  sermon,  it  has  nothing  to 
do  with  politics  or  religion.  I  was  out  this  afternoon 
looking  at  the  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain,  and  seeing  a 
benevolent  smile  upon  his  face,  I  asked  him  what  pleased 
him  so,  and  he  replied,  '  Horace  is  coming.'  "  [Great 
applause.] 

In  this  pleasant  way  the  Governor  discoursed  to  the 
imaginary  Greeley  for  a  few  minutes. 

As  this  burlesque  was  performed  in  the  midst  of  the 
presidential  canvass,  and  included  among  its  performers 
men  of  all  sorts  of  political  relations,  it  was  evidently  ap- 
preciated and  enjoyed  as  a  fitting  epilogue  in  the  great 
farce  then  convulsing  the  nation. 

In  such  sports  as  these  the  dwellers  at  the   Profile 


WITH    THE   OLD   MAN    OF   THE    MOUNTAINS.  145 

House  amused  one  another  during  the  last  days  of  their 
sojourn  among  the  mountains.  They  had  a  mock  trial, 
at  which  one  of  the  best  judges  presided,  and  near  him, 
with  all  gravity,  sat  one  of  the  judges  of  the  Supreme 
Court  of  the  United  States,  while  eminent  lawyers  made 
as  desperate  efforts  to  amuse  the  audience  as  they  ever 
did  to  clear  a  rogue  at  home. 

Sunday  came.  And  then  it  was  good  to  see  that  rest, 
such  as  the  Sabbath  invites,  does  not  require  amusements 
to  make  it  thoroughly  enjoyable.  The  same  grand  par- 
lor, which  the  evening  previous  had  been  given  up  to  in- 
nocent play,  was  now  filled  with  the  same  audience, 
reverently  assembled  to  worship  God.  They  were  of  all 
religious  persuasions,  but  I  do  not  know  that  one  in  the 
house  was  absent  because  of  the  faith  of  him  who  was  to 
conduct  the  service.  It  was  the  wish  of  the  company 
that  I  should  take  this  duty,  and  it  was  pleasant  to  lead 
such  a  multitude,  all  away  from  home,  unknown  to  each 
other,  and  nearly  all  of  them  so  to  me,  but  all  children 
of  the  same  Father,  and  seeking  the  same  home  in  his 
house.  And  with  what  fervor  did  we  sing  that  morning, 
and  again  in  the  evening,  when  we  met  for  social  praise, 
the  old  familiar  hymns,  some  that  had  rung  out  from  the 
lips  of  martyrs,  and  all  of  them  the  joy  of  saints  whose 
feet  now  tread  the  higher  courts  and  whose  voices  make 
the  melodies  among  the  heavenly  hills  : 

"  They  stand,  those  halls  of  Zion, 

Conjubilant  with  song, 
And  bright  with  many  an  angel 

And  all  the  martyr  throng. 

•'  The  Prince  is  ever  in  them, 
The  daylight  is  serene ; 
The  pastures  of  the  blessed 
Are  decked  in  glorious  sheen. 
K 


146  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

"There  is  the  throne  of  David, 
And  there,  from  care  released, 
The  song  of  them  that  triumph, 
The  shout  of  them  that  feast. 

"And  they  who  with  their  Leader 
Have  conquered  in  the  fight, 
Forever  and  forever 
Are  clad  in  robes  of  white." 


XVII. 

MEMORIES  OF  ITALY. 

Lying  here  under  the  trees,  my  soul  often  goes  away 
to  other  lands,  and  lives  in  the  climes  and  scenes  it  has 
enjoyed  in  years  gone  by.  I  have  often  looked  on  the 
face  of  a  man  asleep,  and  its  vacuity  suggested  the  idea 
that  his  soul  was  on  its  travels  elsewhere.  And  as  I  re- 
cline beneath  these  deep  shadows,  in  the  heat  of  this  sum- 
mer day,  though  my  eyes  are  open,  I  dream,  and  the  dream 
is  of  Italy.  I  will  tell  you  what  I  saw  when  there,  and 
what  is  as  vivid  now  as  if  we  were  yesterday  in  the  Land 
of  the  Beautiful. 

It  was  nine  at  night  when  we  had  reached  Florence 
and  supped,  and  then  it  was  time  to  go  to  bed ;  for  we 
had  made  a  long  day  of  it.  What  with  getting  ashore  at 
Leghorn ;  running  the  gauntlet  of  all  sorts  of  officials 
and  non-officials;  having  our  luggage  twice  searched  and 
plumbed  to  go  from  one  town  to  another  in  the  same  king- 
dom ;  then  coming  up  to  Pisa,  and  stopping  there  under 
the  shadow  of  that  wondrous  Leaning  Tower,  which  leans 
as  it  has  leaned  for  six  hundred  years,  and,  as  it  seems  to 
me,  leans  still  more  than  it  did  years  ago,  when  I  swung 
myself  out  from  the  iron  rail  around  the  ninth  story  of  it, 
and  tried  to  see  the  base  from  the  summit,  and  could 
not;  having  toiled  up  the  winding  stairway  that  Galileo 
so  often  ascended  and  descended  in  the  pursuit  of  science 
— for  here  he  tested  the  velocity  of  falling  bodies — and 


148  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

then  walking  through  the  Cathedral,  where  still  hangs, 
and  sometimes  swings,  the  lamp  which  set  the  same  grand 
philosopher  on  the  track  of  the  pendulum,  whose  constant 
movement,  silent  and  steady,  in  every  palace,  hall,  and 
home  in  the  civilized  world  has,  perhaps,  been  and  will 
be  as  useful  to  mankind,  in  teaching  the  measure  and  val- 
ue of  time,  as  any  thing  they  will  learn  this  side  of  eter- 
nity \  and  then  looking  into  the  Campo  Santo,  not  less 
memorable  for  the  great  and  good  who  are  buried  in  it 
than  for  the  genius  and  fame  of  the  painters  whose  works, 
once  thought  to  be  immortal,  are  even  now  fading  from 
the  eye  that  strains  its  vision  to  catch  departing  beauty, 
as  if  the  figures  were  angels  fast  disappearing;  and  sculpt- 
ure so  ancient,  rescued  from  distant  tombs,  that  the  names 
of  the  mighty  makers  have  long  since  been  buried  beyond 
the  sound  of  the  trumpet  of  fame,  which  is  no  resurrection 
trump,  but  only  heralds  the  names  of  those  whom  the 
world  will  not  let  die;  and  the  very  ground  of  the  Campo 
Santo  was  brought  from  the  Holy  Land,  and  perchance 
may  be  itself  the  dust  of  patriarchs  and  apostles,  as  the 
ground  we  daily  tread  once  lived;  I  was  saying  we  had 
paused  at  Pisa,  and  spent  the  balance  of  the  day  in  the 
midst  of  these  old  monuments  and  wonders  of  science 
and  art,  and,  wearied  with  seeing  and  thinking,  had  turned 
away  and  come  on  to  Florence  in  the  evening. 

All  around,  not  alone  in  the  palaces  of  the  Medicis  and 
the  Pittis,  nor  in  Santa  Maria  Novella,  the  Bride  of  Mi- 
chael Angelo ;  nor  in  Santa  Croce,  where  is  his  tomb,  by 
the  side  of  Dante's,  and  face  to  face  with  Galileo's ;  but 
all  around  us  in  the  streets  and  the  piazzas,  and  on  the 
bridges  over  the  Arno,  were  forms  of  beauty  whose  pres- 
ence makes  an  atmosphere  of  art,  filling  Florence  with  a 
fragrance  that  belongs  to  no  other  city  on  earth ;  and  we 


MEMORIES   OF   ITALY.  1 49 

could  not  go  to  sleep  till  we  had  walked  out  in  the  midst 
of  them,  even  if  we  could  catch  but  the  graceful  outlines 
of  these  creations  of  other  days.  We  walked  up  the  Arno 
to  the  Uffizi,  and  under  its  arches  and  along  the  terrace 
passed  between  rows  of  statues  of  great  men  gone,  and 
into  the  Piazza  della  Signoria,  and  there  the  handiwork 
of  Michael  Angelo  in  David,  and  Bandinelli's  Hercules, 
and  the  Sabine  woman,  by  John  of  Bologna,  were  lumi- 
nous in  the  dark,  as  we  greeted  their  familiar  forms.  Yet 
we  walked  on,  pilgrims  from  a  land  unknown  when  Ci- 
mabue  found  Giotto  tending  sheep  hard  by  this  fair  city 
that  now  glories  in  being  the  early  home  of  both,  and 
treasures  their  works  among  her  priceless  crowns  of  art. 
We  went  on  looking  upward  to  catch  sight  of  the  Duomo, 
and  soon  we  were  on  the  spot  where  Dante  was  wont  to 
sit,  and  gazing  on  the  wondrously  suspended  and  sup- 
ported dome  of  this  great  cathedral,  whose  architects,  Ar- 
nolfe  and  Brunelleschi,  now  sit  here  in  stone,  as  if  sur- 
veying their  own  stupendous  work.  And  there  rose  to 
the  near  heavens — for  in  the  night  its  crown  was  hardly 
visible — there  rose  the  Campanile,  so  massive,  majestic, 
and  sublime  in  its  proportions,  as  it  is  beautiful  beyond 
comparison,  by  daylight,  in  its  marbles  of  every  color — 
the  most  perfect  bell-tower  in  the  wide  world.  We  could 
not  see  the  bronze  doors  of  the  Baptistery,  the  early 
works  of  Ghiberti,  who  spent  upon  them  forty  years  of 
his  life,  and  left  them  as  his  monument ;  but  we  reserved 
these,  and  all  we  had  only  caught  glimpses  of,  and  this 
whole  cityful  of  ancient  and  modern  art,  to  be  studied 
and  enjoyed  in  successive  days  and  weeks  at  hand. 

This  was  enough  for  one  day.  In  the  morning  on  the 
sea ;  in  the  afternoon,  with  the  weight  of  centuries  on  us, 
at  Pisa;  in  the  evening  wandering  along  the  ways  of 


15° 


UNDER   THE   TREES. 


Florence,  so  often  pressed  by  the  feet  of  old  poets  and 
world-famed  statesmen,  and  artists  that  neither  Greece 
nor  Rome,  in  the  palmiest  days  of  their  art  triumphs,  ex- 
celled )  now,  as  midnight  drew  near,  standing  midway  of 
the  Arno,  on  the  Santa  Trinita,  which  has  stood,  just  as 
it  now  stands,  for  three  hundred  years,  adorned  with  four 
statues  as  its  corners,  representing  the  four  seasons  of  the 
year ;  and  thence  looking  at  the  long  lines  of  lamps  on 
either  hand,  reduplicated  in  the  waters,  above  and  below, 
as  far  as  the  city  stretches  on  both  sides  of  this  silver 
stream,  was  it  strange — willing  as  the  soul  might  be  to  lin- 
ger and  dream  away  the  night  in  the  first  joy  of  the  em- 
brace of  so  much  loveliness  and  glory — that  the  flesh  was 
weary?  And  so  we  entered  our  hotel,  on  the  bank  of 
the  river  by  the  Ponte  Alia  Carraja,  and  were  soon  at 
rest. 

And  yet  not  at  rest.  For  here,  into  this  very  house, 
the  first  time  I  was  in  Florence,  I  had  come  with  a  young 
friend,  on  whom  sickness  laid  its  fevered  hand  almost  as 
soon  as  he  came,  and  day  after  day  he  faded  away  from 
the  life  and  joy  of  the  beautiful  Florence  he  had  sought 
with  me,  till  at  last,  while  a  dear  friend  held  one  hand  of 
the  dying  and  I  the  other,  death  came  and  bore  his  spirit 
to  the  better  land.  The  frightened  Italian  servants,  look- 
ing in  at  the  window  from  the  balcony,  said  inquiringly, 
"  Morto  ?  morto  ?"  and  we  answered,  "  Yes  ;  dead,  dead." 
And  from  this  house,  in  a  chill  November  morning,  before 
eight  o'clock,  as  the  laws  of  the  country  then  required,  we 
bore  him  out  to  his  far-from-home  grave. 

It  was  hard  to  sleep  in  a  room  haunted  with  such  mem- 
ories ;  yet  with  thoughts  of  better  rest  and  fairer  scenes, 
and  bliss  that  knows  no  weariness,  decay,  nor  night — 
beauty  in  everlasting  spring,  and  a  crown  that  fadeth  not 


MEMORIES    OF    ITALY.  151 

away — I  slept  sweetly,  and  awoke  with  a  heart  and  mind 
and  frame  rejoicing,  with  every  string  of  the  thousand  of 
this  wondrous  harp  in  tune,  to  enjoy  the  harmonies  of  art 
and  song  in  Florence  the  Beautiful. 

The  time  was  when  Florence  had  the  reputation  of  be- 
ing the  pleasantest  and  the  cheapest  place  to  winter  in. 
It  is  not  so  pleasant,  and  it  is  not  so  cheap  as  it  once 
was,  and  the  reason  why  you  will  learn  by  degrees,  as  we 
did.  Still  it  is,  as  compared  with  any  other  capital  in 
Europe,  both  pleasant  and  cheap,  and  in  many  respects 
the  most  attractive.  What  it  once  was,  it  will  not  be 
again  ;  yet  it  has  riches  of  beauty,  and  monuments  of 
genius,  and  trophies  of  art,  and  memories  in  story  and 
song,  that  will  make  it  sacred  and  glorious  in  the  eyes  of 
all  with  taste  to  appreciate  its  treasures.  And  to  many 
its  charms  are  ravishing.  "See  Naples  and  die,"  was 
the  old-time  saying ;  but,  having  seen  Naples  and  Flor- 
ence and,  midway,  Rome,  I  would  rather  see  and  enjoy 
what  is  in  Florence  than  all  in  both  her  rival  sisters. 

With  a  list  of  "  apartments  to  let,"  we  set  out  the  first 
morning  to  find  a  home  for  the  few  weeks  we  had  to  stay; 
and,  after  running  and  riding  some  hours,  were  so  fortu- 
nate as  to  find  just  the  quarters  of  all  others  that  we 
would  most  desire. 

Casa  Guidi  is  one  of  the  historical  mansions  of  Flor- 
ence. It  is  on  the  Piazza  San  Felice,  just  where  it  opens 
on  the  Pitti  Palace,  the  late  residence  of  the  Grand-Duke 
of  Tuscany,  and  the  later  residence  of  Victor  Emanuel. 
Casa  Guidi  is  our  home  in  Florence.  For  many  years 
past,  like  many  other  old  palaces  in  this  city,  it  has  been 
"let "  in  apartments,  and  so  distinguished  have  been  some 
of  its  modern  tenants  that  it  has  become  more  famous  as 
their  residence  than  as  the  house  of  the  Guidi.     It  was  in 


152  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

this  palace  that  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  resided 
for  many  years.  Here  I  made  her  acquaintance  in  the 
year  1853.  Here  Mrs.  Browning  wrote  some  of  her  best 
poems,  and  to  one  of  the  most  spirited  and  feeling  she 
gave  the  name  "  Casa  Guidr  Windows,"  for  out  of  these 
windows  she  saw  the  scenes  therein  portrayed,  and  which 
predicted  to  her  prophetic  spirit  the  future  glory  of  Italy. 
Here  she  died.  With  her  husband  and  only  child  she 
had  come  in  from  the  country,  in  feeble  health,  but  with 
no  expectation  of  approaching  death.  The  good  woman 
who  now  lets  the  chambers  was  with  her  then,  and  told 
me  the  incidents  of  her  last  days.  She  was  called  sud- 
denly at  the  last,  but  went  away  cheerfully,  to  sing  sweeter 
songs  with  the  angels.  The  city  of  Florence  has  caused 
a  marble  slab  to  be  placed  over  the  portal  of  this  man- 
sion, on  which  is  inscribed  in  Italian — 

"  Here  wrote  and  died 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning, 

Who  in  the  heart  of  woman  combined  the  wisdom  of  the  learned 

and  the  spirit  of  poetry,  and  made  of  her  verse  a  golden  ring  uniting 

Italy  and  England.     Grateful  Florence  placed  this  memorial,  1861." 

In  the  room  where  I  was  writing,  and  at  the  same 
table,  wrote  Mrs.  Jameson,  whose  works  on  "  Sacred  and 
Legendary  Art,"  "Legends  of  the  Madonna,"  "Italian 
Painters,"  and  "  Loves  of  the  Poets,"  etc.,  are  text-books 
for  students  and  travelers  in  Italy.  A  few  doors  below, 
Sismondi  wrote  his  history  ;  Motley,  our  American  histo- 
rian, had  his  chambers;  Hawthorne  was  a  little  way  on 
the  other  side  ;  and  Miss  Mulock,  and  how  many  more  I 
have  not  time  to  write.  The  Machiavelli  house  is  close 
by,  and  I  have  been  up  and  down  its  stone  stairway  a 
score  of  times,  wondering  always  how  many  statesmen 
and  priests  and  women  have  been  there  before  me.     We 


MEMORIES    OF    ITALY.  1 53 

have  rooms  on  the  first  floor — that  is,  up  one  flight  of 
stairs,  looking  out  on  the  Square  and  the  end  of  the  Pit- 
ti  Palace.  Our  parlor,  eighteen  by  twenty  feet,. and  as 
many  high,  is  handsomely  furnished,  and  the  bed-cham- 
bers adjoining  are  supplied  abundantly.  The  greatest 
inconvenience  we  endure  is  from  the  cold,  for  the  idea  of 
an  American  stove,  or  a  modern  civilized  fire-place,  has 
not  reached  this  capital  of  science  and  art.  Our  fire- 
place is  indescribable.  The  wood  that  costs  us  half  a 
dollar  would  not  last  us  a  day,  if  we  kept  the  fire  going ; 
and  if  it  go  out,  we  must  go  out,  too,  and  get  warm. 
Many  of  the  palatial  residences  and  thousands  of  the 
humbler  dwellings  have  no  fires  in  them,  and  no  chim- 
neys. Ladies  sit  all  day  with  an  earthen  kettle  in  their 
laps  or  at  their  feet,  filled  with  hot  embers,  and  ofttimes 
they  upset  them ;  and  some  carry  them  in  the  street,  and 
enjoy  them  when  they  make  calls.  They  are  called  scal- 
difii,  and  are  very  poor  comforters,  even  when  wrapped  up 
and  put  to  bed,  as  they  are  sometimes  in  place  of  our  an- 
cient warming-pans.  Lady  Morgan,  in  her  charming  vol- 
umes of  travel  in  Italy,  speaks  of  a  visit  she  made,  in 
November,  at  a  villa  near  Florence  : 

"  The  evening  was  intensely  cold,  and  we  were  struck 
upon  this  occasion,  as  upon  many  similar  ones,  by  the  in- 
sensibility of  the  Italians  to  the  influence  of  cold.  For 
our  accommodation  a  wood  fire  was  lighted  in  one  of  the 
few  hearths  which  this  large  villa  contained,  but  no  one 
ventured  to  approach  it  but  ourselves.  When  the  Rus- 
sian Czar,  Paul  the  First,  visited  Florence,  he  went  shud- 
dering about  from  sight  to  sight,  observing,  '  In  Russia, 
one  sees  the  cold  \  in  Italy,  one  feels  it.'  The  common 
people  of  Tuscany  only  approach  fire  for  culinary  pur- 
poses, and  females  of  all  ranks  move  about  with  their 


154  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

scaldini  hanging  on  their  arms.  When  seated,  they  place 
it  under  their  petticoats  ;  and  this,  in  the  extremest  cold, 
is  the  only  artificial  heat  they  resort  to." 

So  Lady  Morgan  says;  and  I  have  seen  all  she  de- 
scribes. I  learn  also  that  judges,  when  they  enter  court 
and  take  their  seats  on  the  bench,  bring  their  scaldini  with 
them,  and  warm  their  fingers,  to  soften  their  own  trials. 
A  lawyer,  one  day,  leaped  up,  in  great  wrath,  to  reply  to 
something,  and  flourished  his  earthen  kettle  of  coals  in 
his  furious  gesticulation. 

Every  step  to  be  taken  in  the  city  of  Florence  has  a 
story  to  it.  History  has  done  much  to  preserve  and 
transmit  the  interest  that  invests  the  palaces,  monuments, 
bridges,  public  squares,  and  private  houses.  Poetry  has 
done  more.  It  is  a  city  of  the  Muses.  It  is  itself  almost 
a  poem.  Its  air  is  full  of  song.  Tradition  has  been  more 
busy  with  the  stones  of  Florence  than  the  pen  or  pencil. 

It  is  hard  to  say  which  ^re  the  most  numerous,  tales  of 
love  or  tales  of  blood,  in  this  beautiful  Italy.  It  is  a  sin- 
gular feature  in  human  nature  that  the  love  of  the  beau- 
tiful and  that  of  the  tragical  is  so  often  blended  in  the 
same  breast.  I  went  to  see  an  exhibition  of  the  recent 
works  by  native  artists.  Its  object  is  similar  to  that  of 
our  National  Academy's  annual  exposition.  And  the 
greatest  picture — that  which  attracts  the  most  attention, 
elicits  the  warmest  eulogies,  and  holds  the  most  conspic- 
uous place  in  the  gallery — is  a  story  of  love  and  blood. 
A  wife,  still  young  and  beautiful,  detecting  the  secret  ad- 
miration of  her  husband  for  a  former  rival  of  hers,  has 
contrived  to  get  her  into  her  power,  has  cut  off  her  pretty- 
head,  and,  having  nicely  arranged  it  in  a  basket  of  flowers, 
with  the  yellow  locks  of  hair  lying  neatly  among  them, 
she  is  bringing  the  precious  present  to  be  offered  to  her 


MEMORIES   OF   ITALY.  155 

husband  when  he  comes  home.  It  reminded  me  of  a 
similar  incident,  the  scene  of  which  is  also  laid  in  Flor- 
ence. A  wife  is  sitting  in  front  of  her  mirror,  and  her 
pretty  maid  is  arranging  her  hair.  Her  husband  is  just 
leaving  the  room  to  go  on  a  journey,  and  as  he  passes  out 
of  the  door  the  wife  detects  in  the  mirror  a  look  which  he 
gives  to  the  maid,  and  it  rouses  the  fire  of  jealousy  in  her 
burning  heart.  He  goes.  She  says  nothing ;  but  before 
he  returns  she  has  led  the  poor  girl,  perhaps  more  inno- 
cent of  evil  than  herself,  to  the  cellar  of  the  palace,  and 
into  a  recess  in  the  wall,  where  solid  masonry  soon  con- 
signs her  to  a  living  grave  and  lingering  death,  a  wretch- 
ed victim  of  a  wife's  jealousy  and  hate.  In  the  St.  Luke 
Gallery  at  Rome  is  a  solemn  picture  that  shows  a  vestal 
virgin  sitting  in  a  dungeon ;  thus  immured,  a  small  lamp 
burns  at  her  feet,  while  she  waits  for  that  release  which 
death  only  can  bring. 

Every  day  we  are  passing  the  square  called  the  Piazza 
Santa  Trinita.  The  City  Hall  stands  upon  one  side  of  it, 
and  in  the  centre  is  a  granite  column,  once  in  Rome,  in  the 
Baths  of  Antoninus,  and  which  Pius  IV.  presented  to  Cos- 
imus  I.,  the  first  of  the  Medici,  who  won  the  title  of  Father 
of  his  Country.  It  is  surmounted  by  a  statue  of  Justice, 
who,  like  the  one  on  our  City  Hall  in  New  York,  holds  in 
her  hand  a  pair  of  scales.  A  few  steps  farther  on  is  a 
famous  palace,  that  of  the  Strozzi,  built  in  1489.  Severe 
as  its  principal  front  is,  its  great  cornice,  by  Cronaca,  is 
justly  regarded  as  an  admirable  work  even  in  this  city 
of  art  triumphs.  Many,  many  years  ago — so  long  ago 
that  it  is  not  important  to  fix  the  date — one  of  the  ladies 
of  the  household  lost  her  diamond  necklace.  The  maid 
who  had  charge  of  her  toilet  was  suspected  of  the  theft, 
and  when  accused  protested  her  innocence.     It  seemed 


156  UNDER    THE   TREES. 

to  be  impossible  to  account  for  the  loss  in  any  other  way, 
and  to  make  the  girl  confess  her  guilt  she  was  put  to  the 
torture,  and  the  awful  secret  drawn  out  of  her  by  rack  and 
fire.  It  is  common  for  the  victims  of  this  inquisitorial 
process  to  confess,  and  probably  the  innocent  confess 
more  readily  than  the  guilty.  The  hardihood  of  crime 
may  endure  when  sweet  innocence  sinks  under  suffering. 
The  hapless  maiden,  when  her  joints  are  drawn  asunder 
by  the  tightening  ropes  and  wheel,  will  accuse  herself  of 
any  crime  in  the  sad  hope  of  speedy  release  by  pardon  or 
the  finishing  stroke  of  death.  Perhaps  this  poor  Italian 
maid  was  thus  made  to  confess.  At  any  rate,  she  was 
condemned  to  die  for  the  dreadful  crime  of  robbing  her 
mistress.  This  was  law  then,  and  many  years  have  not 
passed  since  it  was  law  in  England.  She  was  put  to 
death  at  the  foot  of  this  granite  column,  on  which  the 
statue,  a  female  divinity,  was  standing,  and,  as  if  in  mock- 
ery, holding  out  the  scales  of  justice.  It  is  not  related 
that  the  statue  wept  or  groaned  in  sympathy  with  the 
cruel  tragedy  enacted  in  her  name  and  at  her  feet.  It  is 
not  even  said  that  the  beautiful  mistress  was  unwilling  to 
look  out  from  her  palace  window  upon  the  scene,  when 
the  young  life  of  her  fair  maid  was  crushed  out  of  her  in 
the  midst  of  a  crowd  that  always  relishes  the  sight  of 
blood.  But  it  is  recorded  that,  shortly  after  the  tragedy 
was  over,  a  thunder-storm  arose,  a  flash  of  lightning  struck 
the  scales  in  the  hand  of  Justice,  and  down  fell  the  nest 
of  a  jackdaw,  and  out  of  that  fell  the  diamond  necklace, 
for  the  theft  of  which  an  innocent  girl  had  just  suffered  a 
cruel  death.  The  scales  still  swing  in  the  statue's  hand, 
but  the  goddess  has  no  power  to  call  back  the  poor  creat- 
ure who  was  thus  first  robbed  of  her  good  name  and  then 
of  her  life. 


MEMORIES   OF   ITALY.  157 

It  is  a  short  walk  onward  to  the  Piazza  della  Signoria. 
But  it  would  be  a  long  story  to  tell  you  of  the  half  that  is 
in  it  and  around  it — more  of  art  glory  than  illustrates  any 
other- square  in  Europe.  In  the  middle  of  it  is  an  eques- 
trian statue  of  Cosimus  I.,  the  one  to  whom  the  historic 
column  was  presented,  at  whose  base  the  poor  girl  was 
killed  of  whom  we  have  just  been  speaking.  John  of  Bo- 
logna made  this  statue — a  great  work — and  the  grim  man 
on  the  horse  looks  as  if  the  story  of  him  I  am  about  to 
tell  might  be  true.  He  had  two  sons,  one  of  them  just 
of  age,  the  other  a  year  or  two  younger.  The  two 
young  men  were  out  together  hunting,  and  the  older  one 
was  killed.  When  the  younger  returned  with  the  dead 
body  of  his  brother,  too  well  did  the  stern  father  read  in 
the  eye  and  voice  of  the  ambitious  boy  that  his  brother's 
blood  was  on  his  soul.  Down  into  the  deep  recesses  of 
the  palace  dungeons  the  father  led  his  son — now  his  only 
son;  and  there,  with  a  candle  in  one  hand  and  a  knife  in 
the  other,  charged  him  with  the  crime ;  and  while  the 
guilty  boy  knelt  before  him,  and  begged  for  mercy  with 
screams  that  might  have  made  the  huge  walls  melt  with 
pity  even  for  a  fratricide,  the  proud  duke  plunged  the 
knife  into  his  heart,  and  went  up  childless  to  his  bed. 

It  would  not  be  strange  if  some  of  these  tales  and  many 
more  were  done  in  smooth  verse  in  Rogers's  "  Italy."  If 
so,  you  may  be  sure  that  there  is  history  as  well  as  poetry 
to  verify  the  stories.  For  he,  unlike  other  poets,  gives  his 
authorities  and  deals  only  with  facts.  With  one  exception. 
He  makes  a  note  at  the  bottom,  and  confesses  to  this  in- 
vention— the  old  story  of  Ginevra,  the  bride  of  the  mistle- 
toe-bough. Rogers  lays  the  scene  of  it  in  one  of  the 
streets  through  which  he  passes  on  that  journey  which,  in 
the  manner  of  Horace,  he  has  put  into  pleasant  verse. 


158  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

He  describes  the  house  where  the  picture  of  Ginevra  may 
be  seen,  and  then  with  words  of  tenderness  he  tells  the 
story  of  her  love  and  bridal — how  she  playfully  ran  from 
the  wedding  banquet  and  bade  her  new  spouse  follow  her : 
he  pursues  and  loses  track  of  her  as  she  flies  up  the  stairs 
and  through  the  chambers,  and  search  for  her  is  all  in 
vain ;  and  night  and  day,  and  weeks  and  years  wear  away, 
and  no  bride  appears;  and  when  at  last  the  "old  oak 
chest "  in  a  garret  is  removed,  the  jeweled  skeleton  falls 
out,  and  Ginevra  is  found.  The  story  is  told  of  a  house 
in  England,  probably  of  half  a  dozen;  it  is  just  as  true  of 
several  in  Germany;  but  Rogers  puts  it  into  his  poem  of 
"  Italy;"  and  although  he  adds  a  note  that  indorses  it  as 
pure  fiction,  so  credulous  is  the  world  that  they  have  found 
the  house  he  describes  in  the  locality  he  indicates,  and 
the  rush  of  travelers  to  see  the  hypothetical  picture  has 
become  so  great  that  the  persecuted  proprietor,  for  the 
sake  of  getting  quiet  enjoyment  of  his  humble  home,  has 
been  compelled  to  put  up  a  "  notice  "  on  his  gate  that  no 
such  picture  is  there,  and  never  was.  But  this  only  makes 
the  matter  worse.  His  notice  is  regarded  as  a  mere  ex- 
cuse for  not  opening  his  doors  to  anxious  strangers,  and  it 
may  be  that  he  will  have  to  burn  his  house  down  and 
build  another  elsewhere,  or  get  a  picture  of  some  ideal 
bride  and  hang  it  on  his  outer  wall,  that  people  may  be- 
hold and  go  on  their  way  content. 

Until  we  had  been  to  the  two  great  galleries,  it  was  not 
possible  to  feel  that  we  had  actually  come  again  to  Flor- 
ence. Every  moment  there  was  the  present  consciousness 
that  within  a  few  steps  was  the  perfection  of  human  art 
and  genius,  shedding  its  beauty  continually,  but  not  for 
us,  and  time  was  more  and  more  precious  as  it  passed, 
and  these  glories  of  the  old  masters  were  yet  unseen. 


MEMORIES   OF    ITALY.  1 59 

In  the  possession  of  statues  and  paintings  Florence  is 
richer  than  any  other  city  in  the  world.  Critics  may  dis- 
pute this  remark,  but  the  fact  will  remain.  And  when 
Paris  and  Berlin,  and  Munich  and  Dresden,  and  Rome 
and  even  Madrid  have  been  exhausted,  the  lover  of  the 
beautiful  will  delight  himself  here  as  he  has  not  elsewhere, 
and  then  will  carry  away  impressions  to  abide  among  the 
brightest  and  sweetest  that  linger  in  the  evening  of  his 
life. 

In  the  midst  of  the  Uffizi  Gallery  stands  the  statue  that 
not  only  "  enchants  the  world,"  but  is  the  model  of  beauty 
in  the  studios  of  painters  and  sculptors.  To  see  it  is  an 
essential  part  of  a  liberal  education.  It  is  surrounded  by 
other  works  of  art  scarcely  less  worthy  of  study,  and 
thither  tend  the  feet  of  the  pilgrim  as  he  enters  this  tem- 
ple, as  if  there  were  the  high  altar  for  his  first  worship. 
The  portico  of  the  temple  is  adorned  with  twenty-eight 
statues,  but  these  are  passed  without  notice,  as  the  trav- 
eler hastens  to  ascend  the  stone  staircase,  and  enters  at 
once  the  halls  that  were  founded  by  the  Medicis  three 
hundred  years  ago.  This  proud  and  powerful  family, 
whose  virtues  and  vices  are  alike  illustrious  in  the  annals 
of  Italy,  and  whose  name  will  be  immortal  in  art,  have 
their  statues  in  the  vestibule  among  those  of  Mars  and 
Silenus,  Bacchus  and  Hecate.  But  these  effigies  of  the 
real  and  ideal  do  not  detain  us.  Nor  can  we  stop  in  the 
second  vestibule,  and  study  a  horse  in  marble,  so  instinct 
with  life  as  to  suggest  the  idea  of  danger  in  his  presence, 
as  also  in  that  of  the  famous  marble  boar,  on  the  other 
side.  Enter  the  first  corridor:  Pompey,  Julius  Caesar,  and 
Augustus,  Julia  and  Tiberius,  are  here  in  marble,  while  the 
warmer  painting  introduces  you  to  the  earlier  stages  of  the 
art,  and  thus  prepares  you  to  appreciate  and  enjoy  the 


l6o  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

luxuries  of  the  higher  developments  beyond.  Cimabue 
and  his  shepherd-boy  pupil,  Giotto,  are  represented  here 
in  their  works.  They  are  all  of  the  sacred  school :  the 
Virgin  and  Child,  chiefly,  with  a  picture  of  a  soul  flying 
into  the  arms  of  the  Saviour.  Twelve  angels  of  rare  love- 
liness surround  the  Virgin  Mother  and  her  Son,  the  Wise 
Men  are  adoring  the  infant  Jesus,  and  the  next  picture 
introduces  us  to  the  Nuptials  of  Perseus,  disturbed  by 
Phineas.  Is  it  from  want  of  religious  sentiment  that  we 
soon  weary  of  these  endless  repetitions  of  sacred  scenes, 
and  find  relief  in  a  picture  or  a  statue  that  by  contrast 
is  called  profane  ?  We  are  in  haste  to  get  on,  and  St. 
Francis  and  St.  Lawrence,  nor  even  the  Birth  of  Venus, 
nor  Moses  defending  the  Daughters  of  Jethro,  nor  the 
Creation  of  Adam,  the  Rape  of  Ganymede,  the  New 
Spouse,  the  statue  of  a  Nymph  extracting  a  thorn  from  her 
foot,  nor  a  thousand  more  must  demand  of  us  more  than 
a  passing  glance,  for  there  is  something  that  calls  us  on- 
ward, and  we  can  not  pause  by  the  way,  even  to  dwell  for 
a  moment  on  these  works,  which  alone  would  be  the  ad- 
miration of  mankind. 

It  will  check  our  ardor  for  an  instant  to  read  the  notice 
of  the  chamber  into  which  we  are  about  to  enter.  The 
author  of  the  catalogue  has  essayed,  in  English,  to  inform 
the  reader  what  he  is  expected  to  feel  as  he  beholds  the 
mysteries  of  this  place.     He  says  : 

"Tribune. — This  pretty  octagon  saloon,  known  under  this  name, 
is  one  of  the  rarest  wonders  of  the  art,  one  of  those  sanctuaries 
which  can  not  be  looked  upon  without  being  amazed  by  a  respectful 
and  moving  sentiment." 

Entering  this  sacred  chamber,  whose  atmosphere  is 
loaded  with  beauty,  and  whose  every  work  is  one  of  the 
masterpieces  of  masters  to  whom  all  other  masters  are 


MEMORIES    OF    ITALY.  l6l 

proud  to  do  homage,  one  is  instantly  struck  with  the  un- 
desirable change  that  has  come  over  the  face  of  things 
here  since  the  Grand-Duke  was  compelled  to  quit  these 
walls.  In  those  severer  days  these  wide  and  splendid 
apartments  were  hallowed  by  and  to  art.  Silence  and 
study  and  admiration  and  worship  filled  them.  One  took 
off  his  hat  instinctively  when  he  came  into  the  Tribune, 
and  though  many  guests  were  there  from  many  lands, 
none  spoke  except  in  whispers,  and  it  seemed  a  desecra- 
tion of  the  place  to  be  gay  or  rude.  But  now  the  free 
and  easy  bear  rule.  Soldiers  lounge  and  laugh  loudly 
behind  and  before  the  statues.  Copyists  fling  their  jokes 
across  the  chamber  to  each  other,  and  it  was  hard  to  be 
content  with  the  fact  that,  with  the  boon  of  greater  liberty, 
the  people  were  evidently  losing  their  appreciation  of  the 
beautiful  and  reverence  for  the  glorious  in  works  of  art. 
But  the  truth,  sad  as  it  is,  meets  the  eye  and  the  ear,  on 
the  street  and  in  the  gallery,  wherever  men  mingle,  and 
we  must  reserve  the  philosophy  of  it  till  we  get  out  o£ 
this  radiant  chamber,  where  we  can  converse  more  calm- 
ly than  here. 

For  we  are  now  in  the  presence  of  the  loftiest  concep- 
tions of  what  mankind  for  three  centuries  at  least  have 
been  agreed  in  regarding  the  most  worthy  of  admiration 
in  the  picture  and  the  marble.  An  inscription  on  the 
base  of  the  statue  of  the  Venus  de  Medici  ascribes  the 
work  to  Cleomene,  the  son  of  Apollodorus,  the  Athenian 
sculptor,  and  there  is  no  doubt  that  the  Greeks  conceived 
and  produced  it.  But  it  was  found  in  the  ruins  of  Hadri- 
an's villa  at  Tivoli,  near  Rome,  and  brought  to  Florence 
when  Cosimus  III.  was  lord  of  the  city.  Rich  as  Flor- 
ence is  in  marbles,  the  most  of  its  ancient  treasures 
came  from  Rome ;   and  the  wealth  and  power  of  the 

L 


1 62  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

Medicis  made  this  their  city  rich  at  the  expense  of  its 
greater  rival.     To  those  who  have  a  higher  idea  of  the 
loveliness  that  lies  in  the  soul,  and  laughs  in  the  eye,  and 
finds  expression  in  the  voice  when  words  come  up  from  a 
fond  heart  and  out  from  a  cultivated  mind,  than  the  an- 
cient Greeks  or  Romans  had,  or  than  any  Oriental  race 
now  has,  this  statue  would  be  more  beautiful  if  it  had 
no  head.     It  may  have  been  designed  by  its  sculptor  for 
a  Venus,  but  it  has  not  intellect  enough,  nor  room  for 
intellect  enough  to  make  a  respectable  woman  of  any 
kind,  not  to  speak  of  a  goddess,  who  should  be  at  least 
equal  if  not  vastly  superior  to  the  divinities  of  the  human 
race  of  ladies.     Yet  this  was  and  is  the  ruling  sentiment 
of  the  ancient  Greek  mind  and  the  Roman,  and  perhaps 
of  every  race,  however  cultured,  without  the  revelation 
of  that  religion  which  brought  to  light  the  true  glory  and 
power  of  woman.     We  then  study  the  statue  simply  as 
the  marbleized  idea  of  a  physically  beautiful  female  form: 
not  of  a  Venus,  not  a  goddess  of  beauty,  not  a  portrait  or 
copy  from  a  model,  but  the  production  of  one's  idea  of 
what  perfection  would  be  if  it  were  put  into  flesh  or  stone. 
And  here  the  consent  of  the  centuries  must  be  taken  in 
evidence,  and  there  is  no  use  in  writing  an  argument  to 
show  that  they  have  all  been  mistaken.    There  it  stands. 
And  if  you  had  stumbled  upon  it  in  the  ruins  of  Karnak 
or  Persepolis,  you  would  have  been  entranced.     To  see 
such  a  work  and  be  unmoved  is  to  be  more  or  less  than 
a  man.     The  beauty  that  covers  it  as  with  a  garment,  for 
it  has  no  other  covering,  is  so  radiant  from  every  limb 
that  he  would  be  very  foolish  who  should  try  to  say 
wherein  its  chief  excellence  lies  as  a  work  of  art.     Per- 
haps the  exquisite  proportions  of  the  form  and  limbs  are 
such  as  to  prevent  the  attention  from  being  fastened  on 


MEMORIES   OF   ITALY.  1 63 

any  single  feature  as  more  perfect  than  another.  It  is 
harmonious.  It  sings  melodiously  in  its  silent  loveliness, 
ravishing  the  eye  year  after  year,  age  after  age,  without  a 
rival  or  a  peer.  Why  can  not  others,  standing  on  the 
height  to  which  this  statue  beckons  and  lifts  them,  think 
out  and  carve  something  higher  and  better.  They  have 
done  it  in  the  intellectual  and  moral  application  of  art  to 
marble ;  but  they  have  no  forms  more  perfect  than  this,  no 
lines  more  graceful,  no  limbs  so  fitly  tapered,  proportioned, 
and  harmonized  that  the  spectator  is  lost  in  mingled  won- 
der and  delight  as  the  marble  floats  in  the  air,  cheating 
his  senses  into  the  half  delusion  that  a  thing  of  life  is 
there  before  him.  It  is  not  a  modest  statue.  The 
pose  of  it  is  the  attitude  of  one  who  is  "  naked  and  not 
ashamed,"  because  innocent  like  Eve  and  ignorant  of 
evil.  And  the  whole  question  of  the  moral  influence  of 
undraped  statues  would  come  under  discussion  if  we  were 
now  speaking  of  this  from  any  other  than  the  stand-point 
of  art,  to  judge  of  it  only  as  the  lithograph  of  some  great 
master's  dream  of  beauty. 

Day  after  day  it  is  a  joy  to  come  into  this  chamber, 
take  an  arm-chair,  removed  from  contact  with  others,  and 
give  one's  self  up  to  the  gentle  flow  of  soul  that  moves  on 
with  the  harmony  of  these  fine  creations.  They  are  the 
works  of  man,  but  what  work  of  God  is  greater  than  the 
mind  capable  of  conceiving  such  things  as  these  ?  And 
if  God  taught  the  fingers  of  David  to  fight,  and  gave  his 
right  hand  cunning  to  play  on  stringed  instruments,  how 
much  more  of  the  infinite  wisdom  and  skill  was  imparted 
to  him  who  composed  and  achieved  these  marble  por- 
traits of  ideal  loveliness.  It  is  worship  to  look  through 
nature  up  to  God,  and  higher  and  profounder  worship 
still  to  see  the  hand  of  him  who  painted  the  rainbow 


164  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

and  the  rose,  and  set  the  stars  in  constellations  of  beau- 
ty, revealed  in  the  works  of  instruments  he  made  to  pro- 
duce these  grand  results.  Art  is  therefore  only  nature  in 
school :  the  fruit  of  the  seed  that  Infinite  Wisdom  plant- 
ed, the  up-growth  of  that  divine  and  immortal  nature  of 
which  man  was  made  a  partaker  when  he  was  born  in 
the  likeness  of  God.  How  it  has  been  debased  by  sin ! 
Even  here  in  these  holy  places  the  evidence  is  all  about 
us.     This  Venus  is  an  illustration. 

Near  to  her,  in  strong  contrast,  the  Wrestlers  show 
the  development  of  muscular  strength,  and  then  the 
Dancing  Faun,  attributed  to  Praxiteles,  and  a  boy  Apollo, 
and  above  all  an  ancient  statue  of  a  man  apparently 
sharpening  a  knife — a  noble  work  to  exhibit  anatomy  in 
stone.  All  these  works  have  their  separate  and  distinct- 
ly defined  attractions,  few  more  exciting  than  the  volupt- 
uous and  meretricious  charms  of  the  marble  goddess  who 
stands  like  a  queen  of  beauty  among  them.  And  each 
one  is  a  study  on  which  criticism  has  been  exhausted. 
From  them  all  ideas  have  been  drawn  that  are  again  pro- 
duced in  the  works  of  other  artists,  unconsciously  for  the 
most  part,  but  as  distinctly  as  the  words  or  thoughts  of 
one  author  sometimes  find  their  way  into  the  works  of 
another,  who  has  no  recollection  of  their  foreign  origin. 
Thus  the  beautiful  and  the  great  are  wisely  and  widely 
diffused.  Passing  from  one  gallery,  or  studio,  or  country 
to  another,  we  meet  in  the  modern  production  what  is  in 
part  a  reproduction  of  the  ancient ;  and  so  far  from  re- 
proaching the  copyist  as  a  plagiarist,  which  he  is  not  con- 
sciously, we  do  well  to  be  glad  that  his  mind  was  large 
enough  to  receive,  his  taste  capable  of  appreciating,  and 
his  hand  cunning  to  render  in  oil  or  in  clay  the  charm 
that  delighted  us  in  the  work  of  the  older  worker.     It  is 


MEMORIES    OF    ITALY.  1 65 

genius  only  that  can  imitate  the  perfect.  A  great  actor 
is  a  great  artist.  The  faults  of  others  may  be  parodied 
by  a  clown ;  but  to  interpret  the  thoughts  of  others  in 
words,  in  gesture,  on  canvas,  in  bronze  or  marble,  this  is 
a  labor  not  to  be  successfully  achieved  without  at  least  a 
portion  of  that  genius  which  originally  wrestled  in  the 
creation. 

The  paintings  in  this  chamber  are  not  less  worthy  of 
study  than  the  statues.  Some  great  artists  pronounce 
Titian's  Venus  the  best  coloring  in  the  world.  Many  ad- 
mire it  as  the  most  perfect  painting  of  the  human  figure, 
as  the  statue  before  it  is  the  most  perfect  copy  in  marble. 
Here,  too,  are  the  best  pictures,  or,  if  not  the  best,  some 
of  the  most  celebrated  works  of  Domenichino,  Andrea 
del  Sarto,  Guercino,  Van  Dyck,  Raphael,  Perugino,  Fra 
Bartolomeo,  Correggio,  Rubens,  Giulio  Romano,  and  one 
by  Michael  Angelo.  Each  painting  is  a  masterpiece. 
Most  of  them,  yet  not  all,  are  sacred  themes.  Raphael's 
Fornarina  certainly  is  not  a  very  sacred  subject.  But 
besides  this  portrait  of  a  frail  beauty,  whom  he  loved, 
there  is  also  his  "Virgin  of  the  Goldfinch,"  as  it  is  called, 
a  painting  scarcely  less  admired  than  those  other  Madon- 
nas of  his  which  have  been  copied  and  recopied  until  it 
would  seem  that  the  world  itself  would  not  contain  them. 

Reluctantly  leaving  this  charmed  spot,  we  wander  from 
room  to  room,  through  all  the  various  schools  of  painting, 
thus  readily  catching  the  peculiarities  of  each,  as  we 
would  not  if  they  were  hung  promiscuously.  The  Tuscan 
easily  holds  the  pre-eminence.  It  was  a  wonderful  out- 
burst of  nature,  or  rather  a  remarkable  gift  of  Heaven, 
that  bestowed  the  five  greatest  painters  that  ever  lived 
upon  this  little  city  of  Florence  within  the  same  short 
period  of  twenty-five  years.     And  here  they  shine  from 


1 66  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

these  walls,  living  in  their  works — dead,  but  speaking.  In 
the  hall  of  portraits  we  have  the  likeness  of  all  the  great 
masters  of  all  countries,  most  of  them  painted  by  their 
own  hands ;  and  thus  a  double  interest  is  imparted  to  the 
pictures.  Thus  they  looked.  And  thus  they  drew  their 
own  ideas  of  themselves.  Wonderful  men !  Is  the  race 
extinct  forever  ? 

It  certainly  is  not,  because  in  some  lines  of  art  we  have 
men  now  who  surpass  these  who  are  honored  as  the  old 
masters.  There  are  no  painted  landscapes  in  Italy  supe- 
rior, none  equal  to  the  glorious  works  of  our  quite  modern 
American  school.  There  are  no  paintings  of  animals 
more  true  to  nature  than  Rosa  Bonheur's,  and  she  is  not 
an  "old  master."  But  when  we  come  to  that  higher  re- 
gion of  thought,  and  of  power  to  paint  it,  such  as  the 
"  Descent  from  the  Cross  "  required  in  Rubens,  and  the 
"  Transfiguration  "  demanded  of  Raphael — who  died  while 
the  canvas  was  yet  under  his  young  but  mighty  hand — or 
as  the  "  Communion  of  Jerome"  reveals  in  Domenichino, 
and  at  least  a  thousand  others  exacted  of  their  authors, 
whose  works — on  the  walls,  in  fresco,  or  on  panels  or  can- 
vas— remain  for  the  imitation  of  the  coming  generations 
of  disciples,  who  will  be  lifted  up  by  their  contemplation, 
then  we  are  constrained  to  confess  that  these  men  of  the 
fifteenth  and  sixteenth  centuries  still  remain  without 
rivals  in  these  realms  of  art. 

After  we  have  spent  a  few  days  in  the  various  halls  of 
this  Uffizi  Gallery,  the  names  and  numbers  of  the  apart- 
ments being  more  than  can  be  mentioned  here,  you  will 
walk  with  us  by  a  new  yet  very  ancient  path  to  another 
gallery  of  richer  beauty.  It  is  a  new,  but  very  ancient 
way.  On  the  other  side  of  the  River  Arno,  which  divides 
the  city  of  Florence,  stands  the  Pitti  Palace,  for  several 


MEMORIES    OF    ITALY.  1 67 

hundred  years  the  residence  of  the  Grand -Dukes  of 
Tuscany,  and  afterward  the  palace  of  the  King  of  Italy. 
Between  this  Pitti  Palace  and  the  old  palace  a  secret 
gallery  was  built  some  three  hundred  years  ago,  extend- 
ing along  the  tops  of  houses,  across  streets,  and,  following 
the  Ponte  Vecchio  over  the  river,  making  a  promenade 
of  nearly  one  thousand  feet  in  length,  and  about  twelve 
feet  wide.  This  long  passage  has  been  exclusively  re- 
served for  royal  footsteps.  In  these  passing  centuries 
the  Florentines  and  strangers  have  known  that  such  a 
passage  joined  the  distant  palaces,  but  none  knew  what 
treasures  of  art  were  there  enshrined,  nor  what  mysteri- 
ous pleasures  would  be  revealed  if  the  tide  of  ordinary 
humanity  were  allowed  to  ebb  and  flow  along  its  silent 
pavement.  In  course  of  time,  when  Victor  Emanuel  came 
into  quiet  possession  of  the  seats  of  the  grand-duke,  he 
threw  open  this  long  and  long-closed  gallery  to  the  pub- 
lic ;  and  now  a  stream  of  life  flows  through  it  daily.  For 
it  is  rich  in  stores  the  existence  of  which  was  quite  un- 
known to  the  common  world.  Its  walls  are  hung  with 
Gobelin  and  other  tapestries  of  surpassing  excellence  of 
workmanship,  more  admired  by  many  than  the  most  ex- 
quisite paintings.  Tables  and  shelves  are  loaded  with 
gems  of  precious  stones,  mosaics,  cameos,  and  curious 
coins,  and  thousands  of  interesting  and  rare  productions 
from  ancient  museums  and  former  civilizations  in  this 
and  other  lands.  And  perhaps  more  to  be  prized  than 
all  else  in  this  unique  collection  is  an  almost  endless 
number  of  simple  sheets  of  paper,  on  which  are  the  first 
sketches  of  the  great  works  of  those  mighty  sons  of  gen- 
ius whose  labors  we  have  just  been  beholding,  and  of 
others  whose  fame  has  filled  the  earth.  These  are  auto- 
graphs that  thrill  one  as  he  thinks  that  Michael  Angelo 


1 68  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

put  with  his  own  hand,  and  perhaps  his  old  hand,  these 
lines  on  this  sheet;  drew  with  bold  yet  cautious  strokes 
this  rude  outline  of  a  group  which  grew  in  his  mind  and 
underneath  his  touch  till  it  blazed  into  a  painting  that 
now,  when  his  hand  has  been  dust  for  three  hundred 
years,  is  still  one  of  the  joys  of  an  admiring  and  appre- 
ciative age.  And  there  is  scarcely  a  man  whose  fame  is 
world-wide  as  a  painter  or  a  sculptor  of  the  last  four  or 
five  centuries  whose  infant  works  are  not  preserved  under 
glass  in  this  royal  mausoleum  of  genius. 

Midway  of  the  bridge  the  windows  of  this  hanging  gal- 
lery are  enlarged,  and  a  saloon  is  furnished  with  seats, 
where  a  wearied  guest  may  sit  and  muse  among  the 
present  and  the  past.  The  Arno  flows  beneath  him.  Its 
swollen  waters,  confined  within  walls,  rush  below  the  bal- 
conies of  old  palaces,  each  one  of  which  has  a  history  full 
of  romantic  interest.  On  either  hand  the  fairest  works 
of  art  are  lying,  inviting  him  to  be  wise  and  happy  in  the 
good  and  the  beautiful. 

The  story  of  this  Pitti  Palace  is  familiar.  The  head 
of  the  family  that  "built  it,  in  1440,  wished  to  eclipse  the 
splendor  of  the  reigning  house,  and  boasted  that  he  would 
rear  a  palace  in  whose  court  the  house  of  the  Medici 
might  stand.  He  did.  But  by  one  of  those  little  ups 
and  clowns  in  life  that  are  quite  as  common  in  old  coun- 
tries as  new,  it  came  to  pass  that  the  Pitti  family  went 
under,  and  the  Medici,  instead  of  putting  their  palace 
into  the  court  of  the  Pitti,  put  themselves  into  the  Pitti 
Palace ;  and  it  has  remained  the  royal  residence  down  to 
this  day.  And  when  the  grand-duke  went  out  in  haste, 
leaving  his  effects  behind  him,  Victor  Emanuel  came  in 
and  took  possession.  These  royal  gentlemen  in  Europe 
are  wide-awake  to  the  ticklish  tenure  by  which  they  hold 


MEMORIES   OF   ITALY.  1 69 

their  palaces  and  power ;  and  it  is  their  practice  to  make 
to  themselves  friends  of  the  mammon  of  unrighteousness, 
by  hiding  away,  in  other  countries  than  their  own,  nice 
stores  of  gold  and  silver,  which  are  very  useful  when  they 
find  it  necessary  to  be  up  and  moving  to  foreign  parts. 
Thus  the  ex-King  of  Naples,  without  a  crown,  has  more 
crowns  at  the  bankers,  it  is  said,  than  almost  any  other 
man  in  Europe ;  and  he  lives  right  royally  at  Rome,  or 
any  where  else  that  it  pleases  him,  except  at  home.  The 
former  Grand-Duke  of  Tuscany  is  a  private  gentleman  in 
a  beautiful  villa  in  Austria  •  and  in  one  of  his  establish- 
ments in  Florence  there  are  ninety  elegant  carriages  be- 
longing to  him,  which  he  is  at  liberty  to  send  for  and 
take  away. 

On  the  upper  floor  of  this  palace,  and  extending  the 
whole  length  of  it,  is  a  gallery  of  pictures.  Beneath  are 
the  royal  apartments.  The  stone  staircases  leading  up  are 
detached  entirely  from  the  household  entrance,  and  the 
stone  floors  of  the  long  corridors  of  paintings  are  imper- 
vious to  the  sound  of  footsteps,  so  that  the  gallery,  open 
daily  to  the  public,  is  as  secluded  from  the  residence  of 
the  king  as  if  it  were  in  another  part  of  the  city.  It  in- 
cludes about  five  hundred  pictures  ;  but  the  number, 
though  smaller  than  that  of  the  Uffizi,  embraces  more 
works  of  transcendent  merit,  and,  as  a  whole,  is  vastly 
superior.  The  ceiling  of  the  saloon  where  we  begin  to 
study  the  pictures  in  order  has  a  moral  that  one  may 
well  learn,  even  from  heathen  mythology :  it  is  a  lesson 
the  young  are  slow  to  take ;  but  they  never  come  to  much 
of  any  thing  in  this  world  till  they  do  learn  it,  and  for  the 
want  of  it  thousands  go  astray.  The  painting  is  by  Pietro 
da  Cartona,  and  represents  Minerva  taking  a  young  man 
from  Venus  and  conducting  him  to  Hercules.     There  is 


170  UNDER  THE   TREES. 

no  need  of  pausing  here  to  preach  a  Christian  sermon 
from  this  Pagan  text.  There  are  several  texts  in  the 
Proverbs  of  Solomon  teaching  the  same  idea.  Minerva 
is  the  goddess  of  wisdom,  Venus  of  sensual  love,  and 
Hercules  the  god  of  strength,  energy,  power.  .  Wisdom 
takes  a  young  man  away  from  sensual  indulgence,  and 
inspires  him  with  force  to  do  and  conquer  in  the  battle 
of  life.  And  it  is  just  this  that  makes  the  difference  in 
the  success  of  men. 

All  the  great  painters  of  the  last  four  hundred  years 
are  now  near  us  in  some  of  their  finest  compositions. 
The  freshness  of  the  coloring,  too,  often  tells  us  that  rash 
hands  have  been  permitted  to  retouch  some  of  these  mas- 
terpieces. "  Fools  rush  in  where  angels  fear  to  tread." 
It  is  even  easier  now  than  ever  for  an  ambitious  young 
artist  to  get  an  order  from  the  authorities  to  take  down 
one  of  these  pictures  and  restore  (!)  it.  It  is  also  much 
less  difficult  than  formerly  to  get  permission  to  remove 
a  painting  from  its  place  to  make  a  copy  of  it.  In  this 
process  the  original  often  suffers  injury.  And  the  thought 
that  a  profane  hand  has  touched  one  of  the  works  of  these 
men  of  old  is  painful.    They  ought  to  be  above  suspicion. 

Raphael's  Madonna  della  Seggiola,  in  this  gallery,  has 
been  more  frequently  copied  and  recopied  by  every  proc- 
ess of  art  known  to  men  than  any  other  picture  in  the 
known  world.  From  the  breastpin  of  a  maid  to  the 
glorious  tableau  that  adorns  the  hall,  the  pencil  and 
brush  and  sun  have  multiplied  it,  until  there  are  few  who 
are  not  familiar  with  the  young  woman's  face  as  she  sits 
in  a  chair  with  the  babe  nestling  on  her  shoulder.  And 
that  is  about  all  you  can  make  of  it.  It  is  not  the  Mary 
who  gave  the  infant  Jesus  to  the  world,  and  one  looking 
at  it  would  not  suppose  that  she  thought  so  herself.    The 


MEMORIES    OF    ITALY.  171 

same  may  be  said  of  the  same  great  artist's  Madonna  of 
the  Balcony,  and  also  of  the  Goldfinch.  If  the  old  mas- 
ters failed  ever,  they  all  failed  in  that  which  more  fre- 
quently than  any  thing  else  employed  their  powers — the 
production  of  a  just  idea  of  the  Mother  of  our  Lord.  Yet 
they  were  not  unmindful  of  the  obvious  truth  that  the  one 
grand  idea  to  be  embodied  and  made  visible  in  the  coun- 
tenance of  the  Virgin  Mother  is  this — the  consciousness 
of  the  fact  that  she  herself  was  mysteriously  the  mother 
of  Immanuel.  Others  might  believe  it ;  her  own  husband 
might,  because  he  had  been  told  so  in  a  dream,  and  his 
Mary,  whom  he  loved,  had  often  whispered  in  his  amazed 
and  trembling  soul  the  awful  secret  that  "  that  which  was 
cpnceived  in  her  was  of  the  Holy  Ghost."  But  she  only, 
of  all  the  world,  knew  it  was  so.  Jewish  maidens  and 
mothers  longed  and  prayed  that  it  might  be  so  with  them. 
But  now  it  was  hers.  The  angel  of  the  Annunciation  had 
brought  her  the  joyful  tidings  of  its  coming.  The  Mes- 
siah, of  God  begotten,  had  leaped  in  her  womb.  He  was 
born  of  her  and  laid  in  a  manger.  The  sages  of  the  East 
had  worshiped  him  with  gifts  of  incense  and  gold,  as  he 
lay  by  the  side  of  his  spotless  mother.  What  to  her,  in 
the  hope  and  glory  of  that  triumphant  hour,  was  the 
world's  opinion  of  her  or  this  wondrous  child  ?  He  lived 
and  grew,  and  her  mother  heart  swelled  daily  with  the 
knowledge  of  the  future  redemption  to  be.  wrought  for  Is- 
rael through  her  fair  boy.  All  this  and  more  were  in  the 
soul  of  Mary  as  she  hugged  the  child  Jesus  to  her  bound- 
ing breast.  Could  not  a  great  artist  put  somewhat  of  it 
in  her  radiant  face  ?  These  old  masters  do  not  appear  to 
have  made  the  attempt.  To  attempt  was  with  them  to 
succeed,  and  thus  we  know  they  did  not  try.  Their  Ma- 
donnas, for  the  most  part,  are  only  nice  young  women  • 


172  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

but  never  could  have  been  in  the  royal  line,  like  her  who 
was  called  to  be  the  Mother  of  the  Son  of  God.  If  there 
is  one  exception,  it  is  to  be  found  in  the  gallery  we  are 
now  visiting. 

When  I  was  first  in  Florence,  a  friend  informed  me  that 
the  grand-duke  had  in  his  private  apartments,  and  hang- 
ing by  the  side  of  his  bed,  a  Madonna  by  Raphael,  pro- 
nounced by  all  who  had  seen  it  to  be  the  most  perfect 
realization  of  the  idea,  and  that  no  other  would  compare 
with  it  favorably.  We  obtained  permission  to  visit  the 
chamber,  and  the  result  more  than  answered  my  expecta- 
tions. It  has  not  all  that  belongs  to  the  Virgin  Mother ; 
but  it  has  more  than  any  other  in  the  world.  So  highly 
was  the  painting  valued  by  the  grand-duke  that  he  had 
it  with  him  in  his  carriage  when  he  traveled,  and  it  rested 
near  him  wherever  he  slept.  Its  history  is  remarkable. 
In  this  city  of  Florence,  some  years  ago,  one  of  the  old 
and  decayed  families,  whose  only  treasure  left  was  an  in- 
herited picture,  unable  to  pay  their  rent,  which  was  only 
forty  dollars,  offered  to  the  landlord  this  painting  for  the 
debt.  As  it  was  all  he  could  get,  he  took  it.  The  new 
possessor  showed  it  to  the  father  of  the  last  grand-duke, 
who  was  then  in  power.  He  appreciated  it,  and  insisted 
on  retaining  it,  giving  the  owner  six  hundred  dollars,  which 
he  probably  regarded  as  a  high  price.  It  is  now  beyond 
value  in  gold,  for  the  richest  king  could  not  buy  it.  The 
grand-duke  left  it  in  his  flight,  and  has  sent  for  it  as  part 
of  his  private  property  ;  but  the  present  government 
chooses  to  regard  it  as  belonging  to  the  public  collections 
of  art,  the  property  of  the  crown,  and  so  retains  it.  It  is 
the  crown  of  the  gallery  now.  So  recently  has  it  been  in 
the  reach  of  the  public  that  few  copies  have  been  made 
of  it.     But  daily  groups  of  silent  spectators  pause  before 


MEMORIES    OF    ITALY.  1 73 

it,  arrested  by  the  solemn  thoughtfulness,  the  calm  con- 
scious dignity,  the  majestic  womanly  beauty  of  the  blessed 
Mother  with  her  divine  child. 

You  would  be  surprised  on  coming  for  the  first  time  to 
these  and  other  collections  in  Europe  to  see  how  large  a 
part  of  the  labor  and  genius  of  the  great  painters  of  three 
and  four  hundred  years  ago  was  expended  upon  pictures 
of  the  Holy  Family,  and  more  than  all  others  on  the  Vir- 
gin Mother  herself.  The  sentiment  of  the  age  may  be 
traced  in  the  art  of  the  age.  The  world  owes  more  to 
the  Church  of  Rome  for  the  works  of  art  which  her  sen- 
timent has  produced  and  preserved  than  for  aught  else 
she  has  done  for  mankind.  Protestantism  never  protested 
against  art;  but  its  higher  spiritualities  rejected  the  visi- 
ble and  material,  and  holds  communion  directly  with  the 
unseen  and  eternal.  The  doctrine  of  justification  by  faith 
only,  drawing  the  soul  to  the  ascended  Saviour,  and  unit- 
ing it  to  him  in  a  communion  that  admits  no  intercessor 
or  mediator,  left  no  place  for  the  images  or  pictures  of 
saints  or  virgins,  or  even  of  the  human  body  of  the  once 
crucified  but  now  glorified  Redeemer.  It  is  not  impor- 
tant that  we  regard  the  making  of  these  likenesses  a 
breach  of  the  second  command,  in  order  to  understand 
the  reason  of  their  absence  from  the  Protestant  idea  of 
worship.  They  are  an  element  indispensable  to  the  Ro- 
man Catholic  system,  because  from  the  early  departure 
of  that  Church  from  the  simplicity  of  the  Gospel  it  sought 
and  taught  salvation  through  the  intervention  of  saints, 
and  the  great  intercessor  between  man  and  the  Saviour 
was  held  to  be  his  Virgin  Mother.  The  intelligent 
teachers  of  this  Church  tell  us,  and  we  will  not  question 
their  candor  when  they  say  they  do  not  worship  the  pict- 
ure or  the  graven  image  of  the  saint  or  the  Madonna. 


174  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

But  they  use  them  as  aids  to  devotion.  In  them  they  see 
what  they  must  otherwise  conceive,  and  the  feeble  mind 
of  the  multitude  is  incapable  of  reaching,  in  the  pure  ideal, 
such  conceptions  of  the  holiness,  tenderness,  love,  and 
power  of  these  intercessory  agents  as  the  genius  of  a  great 
artist  portrays  in  oil  or  in  stone,  and  leaves  for  the  use  of 
the  Church,  or  for  the  edification  of  the  private,  perhaps 
secluded  Christian  in  after-ages.  This  was  the  sentiment 
that  gave  birth  to  these  great  works  of  art.  Some  of  them 
were  painted  expressly  to  be  placed  over  the  high  altar 
in  magnificent  churches.  When  the  artistic  taste  or  the 
pride  of  possession  has  inspired  an  emperor  or  a  pope 
with  the  desire  to  add  one  of  these  glorious  pictures,  like 
the  "  Communion  of  Jerome,"  to  his  palatial  gallery,  the 
individual  altar  which  it  was  designed  to  hallow  with  its 
mysterious  power  has  been  despoiled  ;  but  in  place  of  the 
picture  an  annual  revenue  of  gold  has  been  secured  to  the 
Church.  Running  on  in  the  line  of  this  thought,  further 
than  we  have  time  to  pursue  it,  we  see  that  the  Roman 
Catholic  idea  of  the  way  of  life  was  the  inspiration  of  art 
in  those  years  that  gave  to  the  human  race  such  hands 
as  those  of  Michael  Angelo,  Titian,  and  Raphael. 

So  many  times,  as  we  pass  from  hall  to  hall,  do  we  see 
the  story  of  the  Cross  on  these  walls,  that  we  will  not  stop 
to  speak  of  any  one  of  them  as  more  worthy  of  study  than 
the  others.  They  who  need  it,  or  they  who  love  it,  may 
find  employment  or  profit  in  the  contemplation  of  the 
blessed  Saviour's  agony.  Here  they  may  come  and  learn 
what  art  has  done  to  paint  the  Man  of  Sorrows  in  every 
stage  of  his  existence  in  the  world  he  came  to  redeem. 
The  darkness  of  the  stable  his  little  body  illuminates. 
In  the  Temple  he  stands,  self-poised,  and  teaches  the  doc- 
tors with  words  of  wisdom  wondrous  from  a  child.     Ev- 


MEMORIES    OF    ITALY.  1 75 

ery  miracle  he  wrought,  every  scene  that  he  passed 
through,  is  here.  He  sweats  as  it  were  great  drops  of 
blood  in  Gethsemane.  He  is  betrayed  by  a  traitor's  kiss. 
He  stands  before  Pilate's  bar.  His  bare  back  is  cut  with 
the  sharp  blows  of  the  scourge.  He  sinks  beneath  the 
weight  of  the  heavy  cross — ah,  how  much  heavier  than 
any  of  ours,  poor,  sinful  followers  afar  of  that  divine,  ma- 
jestic, glorious  sufferer,  going  of  his  own  free  will  to  the 
Mount  of  Martyrdom.  And  then  the  crucifixion  !  Again, 
and  again,  and  again,  till  the  very  repetition  tires,  is  this 
scene  of  all  scenes  with  every  form  and  feature  of  mortal 
agony  drawn.  Each  one  of  the  old  masters  has  exhausted 
his  art  upon  some  of  these  passages  in  the  life  and  death 
of  the  Lord  of  life  and  death.  And  not  less  often  is  the 
tenderest  of  all  the  stories  told:  how  they  come  with 
pious,  woman  love,  and  gently — as  if  the  dead,  yet  still  di- 
vine, might  suffer — take  him  down  from  the  cross.  How 
lovingly  does  the  Mother  Mary  hold  his  sacred  feet,  as  if 
she  would  receive  them  in  her  bosom,  and  warm  them 
back  to  life !  Here  on  another  canvas  they  are  laying 
him  in  the  tomb.  There  the  guards  are  flying  while  the 
God  is  coming  forth  from  the  burst  sepulchre.  And  now 
a  conscious  Saviour  reveals  himself  in  that  one  word, 
"  Mary,"  and  she  beholds  her  Lord.  The  walk  to  Em- 
maus  is  here.  And  why  need  we  tell  of  the  numberless 
scenes  on  the  Hill  of  Ascension — the  stricken  disciples, 
the  glorified,  rising  Redeemer,  the  clouds,  the  heavens 
opening,  the  work  of  redemption  finished. 

Some  of  these  scenes  it  is  well  to  study  even  in  pict- 
ures. Yet  there  are  few  devout  minds  unable  to  form 
an  ideal  of  the  Saviour  and  his  passion  more  edifying 
than  art  can  put  in  colors.  And  it  is  not  a  part  of  our 
holy  and  happy  religion  to  be  made  holier  and  happier 


176  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

by  the  study  of  the  physical  sufferings  of  our  blessed  Sav- 
iour. It  does  not  make  one  love  him  more  nor  love 
him  less  to  see  his  sacred  head  bleeding  under  the  crown 
of  thorns.  But  we  may  for  the  time  separate  ourselves 
from  the  relation  in  which  we  stand  to  the  original  of 
these  Oriental  scenes,  and  study  them  merely  as  works  of 
high  art,  and  then  their  true  excellence  will  appear.  We 
are  too  wise  and  too  orthodox  to  use  or  to  need  them  as 
aids  to  holy  living.  Perhaps  we  are  too  irreverent  to  re- 
gard them  with  the  sacredness  of  contemplation  which 
their  subjects  demand.  But,  in  any  aspect  of  the  question 
they  awaken,  they  are  the  great  boons  of  Romanism  to 
mankind  ;  and  as  such,  as  well  as  for  the  moral  and  intel- 
lectual power  that  is  in  them  to  instruct,  exalt,  and  inspire 
humanity,  they  will  be  prized  even  by  those  whose  relig- 
ious system  rejects  them  from  among  its  means  of  grace. 
The  whole  Scripture  history  may  be  found  illustrated, 
Old  and  New  Testament  alike.  From  the  creation  of 
Adam,  and  the  rising  from  his  side  of  Eve,  to  the  opening 
of  the  seals  of  prophecy,  every  thing  has  been  seized  upon 
as  a  theme  for  the  painter's  skill.  Titian's  Mary  Magda- 
len is  here,  whose  golden  tresses  fall  in  luxuriant  waves 
around  her,  and  Mazzolini's  adulterous  woman,  and  every 
bloody  scene  that  rises  into  the  dignity  of  history  and 
justifies  the  expense  of  time  and  paint.  Judith  holding 
by  the  hair  the  bleeding  head  of  her  slain  enemy  is  often 
copied,  and  groups  of  people  are  always  taking  delight 
in  its  study.  Classic  history  is  ransacked  for  subjects. 
Heathen  mythology,  Roman  and  Grecian  poetry  and 
prose  yield  rich  material  for  the  artist's  toil ;  and  he  who 
masters  the  story  and  the  picture  will  go  away  with  a 
cultured  intellect,  and  stores  of  beauty  to  admire  in  the 
retrospect,  so  long  as  memory  performs  her  office. 


XVIII. 

A  NIGHT  AND  A  DAY  IN  THE  ALPS. 

I  was  on  the  great  road  that  leads  over  the  Alps  into 
Italy  by  the  famous  Pass  of  St.  Gothard.  A  party  of 
students,  seven  from  Germany  and  two  from  Oxford,  join- 
ed us,  and  we  resolved  to  hire  a  carriage  to  Amsteg,  two 
hours  onward,  and  there  to  begin  the  ascent  and  the  pe- 
destrianism  together.  When  we  were  set  down  at  that 
village,  with  a  walk  of  five  hours  before  us,  and  all  the 
way  up  the  mountains,  I  confess  to  a  slight  sinking  at 
the  heart,  and  my  courage  oozed  out  gradually  at  the 
end  of  my  toes.  At  the  inn  of  Altorf,  one  of  these  Ger- 
man students  attracted  me  by  the  gracefulness  of  his 
manner,  the  delicacy  of  his  features,  and  the  pleasant  ex- 
pression with  which  he  conversed.  He  attached  himself 
to  our  party,  and  we  walked  on  together,  pilgrims  as  we 
were,  bound  to  see  Switzerland,  and  rejoicing  in  the  pow- 
er to  take  leave  of  all  modes  of  traveling  but  that  first 
and  best  which  nature  had  provided. 

The  River  Reuss  comes  dashing  along  down  with  the 
fury  of  a  young  torrent,  pouring  over  rocks  and  whirling 
around  precipices  with  a  madness  that  brooks  no  control. 
The  Bristenstock  mountain  towers  aloft  into  the  regions  of 
snow  and  ice,  and  nature  begins  to  grow  wild  and  dreary. 
The  soft  meadows  on  which  the  maids  of  Uri  were  mak- 
ing hay  have  disappeared,  and  the  green  pastures  with 
frequent  herds  are  now  the  only  hope  of  the  shepherd. 

M 


178  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

The  road  is  no  longer  a  straight  path,  but  in  its  toilsome 
way  upward  it  crosses  again  and«  again  this  foaming  river, 
and  bridges  of  solid  masonry,  built  to  resist  the  flood 
when  it  bears  the  ruins  of  avalanches  on  its  bosom,  and 
spreads  them  in  the  spring  on  the  plains  below. 

We  crossed  the  third  bridge  and  came  to  a  gorge  of 
frightful  depth,  through  which  the  river  rages  furiously  in 
a  maddened  torrent  too  fearful  to  look  upon  without  awe. 
It  is  called  PfafTensprung,  or  the  Priest's  Leap,  from  a 
story  which  no  one  will  believe  who  stands  here,  that  a 
monk  once  leaped  across  the  chasm  with  a  maiden  in  his 
arms.  I  have  no  doubt  a  monk  would  do  his  best  under 
the  circumstances,  but  I  doubt  the  possibility  of  his  clear- 
ing thirty  feet  at  a  bound  over  such  an  abyss  as  this,  even 
for  the  sake  of  the  prize  he  is  said  to  have  carried  off. 
We  had  been  beset  by  beggars  under  all  sorts  of  guises, 
and  here  a  miserable  old  woman — alas,  that  a  woman 
could  come  to  this — appeared  with  a  huge  stone  in  her 
hands,  which  she  hurled  into  the  deeps,  for  us  to  see  it 
leap  from  rock  to  rock  and  finally  sink  into  the  raging 
waters  far  below.  A  few  cents  she  expected  for  this 
service,  and  she  received  them  with  gratitude ;  when  an 
old  man,  perhaps  her  husband,  came  on  with  another 
rock,  which  he  was  willing  to  drop  for  a  similar  consider- 
ation. As  I  turned  away  from  the  scene,  a  carriage  came 
up  in  which  an  English  gentleman  was  riding,  with  two 
servants  on  the  box.  I  walked  by  the  side  of  his  car- 
riage and  fell  into  conversation,  when  he  invited  me  to 
ride  with  him.  I  found  myself  with  a  member  of  the 
London  bar.  He  knew  public  men  whom  I  had  met, 
and  was  well  acquainted  with  all  subjects  of  international 
interest,  so  that  in  fifteen  minutes  we  were  comparing 
minds  on  those  questions  in  which  England  and  Amer- 


A   NIGHT  AND    A    DAY    IN    THE   ALPS.  1 79 

ica  are  so  much  concerned.  We  stopped  at  the  little 
village  of  Wasen  for  refreshments.  I  insisted  on  paying 
the  reckoning,  when  he  stopped  me  with  this  remark : 
"Sir,  you  are  my  guest  to-day;  when  I  meet  you  in 
America,  I  shall  be  happy  to  be  yours." 

We  rode  on  and  upward,  the  road  now  assuming  the 
character  of  a  mighty  structure  of  mason-work,  through  a 
savage  defile,  only  wide  enough  for  the  carriage-path,  and 
for  the  torrent  of  the  Reuss,  which  no  longer  flows,  but  tum- 
bles headlong  from  one  cliff  to  another,  while  for  three  or 
four  miles  the  lofty  precipices  hang  fearfully  on  high.  In 
the  spring,  the  rage  of  this  mountain  river,  swollen  by 
melting  snows,  and  bringing  down  ice  and  rocks  in  its 
thundering  fall,  would  tear  away  the  foundations  of  any 
common  pathway,  and  this  must  be  built  to  defy  the  fury 
of  the  fiercest  storm.  It  is  scarcely  to  be  credited  that 
twenty-five  or  thirty  thousand  persons  cross  the  Alps  by 
this  route  every  year ;  and  to  secure  this  travel,  which 
would  otherwise  be  carried  off  to  the  other  passes,  the 
cantons  of  Uri  and  Tessin  built  a  road  here  which  has 
twice  been  swept  away  by  the  avalanches ;  but  one  would 
think  that  the  present  might  stand  while  the  mountains 
stand.  So  rapid  is  the  ascent  that  the  road  is  made  often 
to  double  on  itself,  so  that  we  are  going  directly  backward 
on  the  route ;  a  foot-passenger  may  clamber  across  the 
doublets  and  save  his  time,  but  the  carriage  must  keep  the 
zigzag  way,  patiently  toiling  up  a  smoother  and  more  beau- 
tiful highway  than  can  be  found  in  the  most  level  region 
of  the  United  States  of  America.  Not  a  pebble  in  the 
path :  the  wheels  meet  no  other  obstruction  than  gravita- 
tion, which  is  sufficient  to  be  overcome  only  by  the  strong- 
est of  horse -power.  Yet  through  this  very  defile,  long 
before  any  road  like  this  had  been  built,  three  armies — 


l8o  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

the  French  and  the  Russians  and  the  Austrians — have 
pursued  each  other,  contesting  every  inch  of  this  ground, 
and  each  one  of  these  rugged  heights,  and  disputing  the 
possession  of  dizzy  cliffs  where  the  hunter  was  afraid  to 
tread.  Never  did  the  feeling  of  nature's  awful  wildness 
so  take  possession  of  my  soul  as  when  night  was  shutting 
in  upon  me  in  this  dreary  pass.  Sometimes  the  road  is 
hewn  out  of  the  solid  rock  in  the  side  of  the  precipice, 
which  hangs  over  it  as  a  roof,  and  again  it  is  borne  over 
the  roaring  stream,  which  in  a  gulf  four  hundred  feet  be- 
low is  boiling  in  its  obstructed  course,  and,  making  for  it- 
self an  opening,  it  leaps  away  over  the  rocks,  and  rushes 
down  while  we  are  toiling  up.  In  the  daytime  it  would 
be  gloomy  here  ;  it  will  be  terrible  indeed  if  the  darkness 
overtakes  us  before  we  reach  our  resting-place  for  the 
night. 

More  than  five  hundred  years  ago  an  old  abbot  of  Ein- 
siedeln  built  a  bridge  over  an  awful  chasm  here,  but  such 
is  the  fury  of  the  descending  stream,  the  horrid  rugged- 
ness  of  the  surrounding  scenery,  the  smoothness  and  so- 
lidity of  the  impending  rocks,  the  roar  and  rage  of  the 
waters  as  they  are  tossed  about  and  beaten  into  spray, 
and  so  unlikely  does  it  appear  that  human  power  could 
ever  have  reared  a  bridge  over  such  a  cataract,  that  it  has 
been  called  from  time  immemorial  the  Devil's  Bridge, 
and  so  it  will  be  called  probably  till  the  end  of  time.  It 
was  just  nightfall  when  we  reached  it.  It  was  very  cold, 
so  far  up  had  we  ascended,  and  my  English  friend  and  I 
had  left  the  carriage  and  were  walking  to  quicken  the 
blood,  when  the  roar  of  the  waters  rose  suddenly  upon 
us,  the  spray  swept  over  us,  and  we  were  in  the  midst  of 
a  scene  of  such  awful  grandeur,  and  with  terror  mingled, 
as  might  well  make  the  nerves  of  a  strong  man  tremble. 


A    NIGHT    AND    A    DAY    IN    THE   ALPS.  l8l 

The  River  Reuss,  at  this  stage  of  its  course,  makes  a 
sweeping  leap — a  tremendous  plunge  at  the  very  moment 
it  bends  nearly  in  a  semicircle ;  while  the  rocks,  as  if  by 
some  superhuman  energy,  have  been  hurled  into  the  tor- 
rent's path,  so  as  to  break  its  force,  but  not  to  withstand 
its  power.  No  words  will  describe  the  terrific  rush  of 
waters  underneath  the  bridge  which  spans  the  dark  abyss. 
Two  bridges,  indeed,  are  here  ;  for  when  the  old  road  was 
swept  away,  the  bridge  defied  the  storm,  and  now  this, 
more  solid  and  of  far  greater  span,  has  been  thrown  high 
above  the  other,  which  is  left  as  an  architectural  curiosity 
in  the  depths  below.  And  long  before  that  was  built  an- 
other one  was  there ;  and  when  the  French  in  1799  pur- 
sued the  Austrians  over  it,  and  while  the  embattled  hosts 
were  making  hell  in  a  furious  fight  upon  and  over  this 
frightful  gorge,  the  bridge  was  blown  up,  and  the  strug- 
gling foes  were  whelmed  together  in  the  devouring  flood. 
A  month  afterward,  and  the  Russians  met  the  French  at 
the  same  spot.  No  bridge  was  here,  but  the  fierce  Rus- 
sians bound  timbers  together  with  the  scarfs  of  the  officers, 
threw  them  over  the  chasm,  crossed  in  the  midst  of  a  mur- 
derous fire,  and  drove  the  enemy  down  the  pass  into  the 
vales  below. 

It  was  dark  before  we  were  willing  to  quit  this  fearful 
place.  The  strength  of  the  present  bridge  is  so  obvious, 
and  the  parapet  so  high,  that  the  scene  may  be  contem- 
plated without  fear  •  but  the  clouds  had  now  gathered, 
hoarse  thunder  muttered  among  the  mountains,  spiteful 
squalls  of  rain — cold,  gloomy,  and  piercing — were  driving 
into  our  faces,  and  we  were  anxious  to  find  shelter  for 
the  night.  We  left  the  bridge,  but  in  another  moment 
plunged  into  utter  darkness  as  we  entered  a  tunnel  called 
the  Hole  of  Uri,  where  the  road  is  bored  one  hundred  and 


182  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

eighty  feet  through  the  solid  rock,  a  hard  but  the  only 
passage,  as  the  stream  usurps  the  rest  of  the  way,  and  the 
precipice  admits  no  possible  path  over  its  lofty  head. 
This  was  made  one  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago,  and  be- 
fore that  time  the  passage  was  made  on  a  shelf  supported 
by  chains  let  down  from  above.  It  was  called  the  Gal- 
lery of  Uri,  and  along  it  a  single  traveler  could  creep,  if 
he  had  the  nerve,  in  the  midst  of  the  roar  and  the  spray 
of  the  torrent,  and  with  a  hungry  gulf  yawning  wide  be- 
low him.  Emerging  from  this  den,  we  entered  a  vale — 
yes,  a  valley  five  thousand  feet  above  the  sea:  once 
doubtless  a  lake,  whence  the  waters  of  the  Reuss  have 
burst  the  barriers  of  these  giant  fortresses,  and  found 
their  way  into  more  hospitable  climes.  No  corn  grows 
here,  but  the  land  flows  with  milk  and  honey,  by  no  means 
an  indication  of  fertility,  for  the  cows  and  the  goats  find 
pasture  at  the  foot  of  the  glaciers,  and  the  bees  their  nests 
in  the  stunted  trees  and  the  holes  of  the  rocks.  We  drove 
through  it  till  we  came  to  Andermatt,  where  the  numer- 
ous lights  in  the  windows  guided  us  to  a  rustic  tavern. 

By  this  time  it  had  commenced  raining  hard,  and  I  be- 
gan to  be  anxious  for  my  young  friends  behind.  But  I 
could  do  no  more  for  them  than  to  send  a  man  to  watch 
on  the  highway  till  they  should  come  up,  and  lead  them 
into  the  house  where  I  was  resolved  to  spend  the  night, 
whether  we  could  find  beds  or  not.  These  rural  inns  in 
Switzerland  are  rude  and  often  far  from  comfortable. 
But  travelers  must  not  stand  upon  trifles.  The  house 
was  designed  to  lodge  twenty  travelers,  and  thirty  at  least 
were  here  before  us.  A  large  supper-table  was  spread, 
and  around  it  a  company  of  gentlemen  and  ladies,  mostly 
Germans,  were  enjoying  themselves  right  heartily  after  the 
day's  fatigue  was  over.     The  London  lawyer  and  myself 


A    NIGHT   AND    A    DAY    IN    THE   ALPS.  1 83 

had  a  separate  table  laid.  We  soon  gathered  on  it  some 
of  the  good  things  of  this  life,  which  you  can  find  almost 
every  where,  and  had  made  some  progress  in  the  discus- 
sion of  the  various  subjects  before  us,  when  my  traveling 
friend  and  Heinrich  arrived,  nearly  exhausted  with  their 
toilsome  walk.  They  had  a  dreadful  tale  to  tell  of  the 
storm  they  had  met,  which  we  just  escaped,  and  bare- 
ly that.  The  lightning  filled  the  gloomy  gorge,  lighting 
up  for  an  instant  the  mighty  cliffs  and  hanging  preci- 
pices, while  the  thunder  roared  above  the  sound  of  the 
torrent,  and  the  rain  drove  into  their  faces,  disputing  with 
them  the  upward  pass.  But  they  were  young  men,  and 
strong.  They  told  me  that  I  never  could  have  borne  the 
labor  and  the  exposure  of  the  walk.  Two  travelers  and 
a  guide  had  given  out,  and  taken  lodgings  in  a  hamlet  we 
had  passed,  and  the  man  whom  we  had  employed  to  bring 
on  our  light  bags  had  also  halted  for  the  night,  and  would 
come  up  early  in  the  morning. 

After  supper  the  landlady  led  us  up  three  pairs  of  stairs, 
under  the  very  roof,  into  a  low  garret  bedroom,  with  one 
window  of  boards  which  could  be  opened,  and  one  small 
one  of  glass  that  could  not,  and  with  three  beds.  Worn 
out  with  their  hard  day's  work,  but  free  from  all  anxious 
care,  my  young  friends  were  asleep  in  five  minutes,  while 
I  coaxed  the  candle  to  burn  as  long  as  it  would — fastened 
it  up  with  a  pin  on  the  top  of  a  candlestick — and  tried  to 
write  the  records  of  the  few  past  hours.  It  was  amusing 
to  hear  my  companions,  one  on  each  side  of  me,  talking 
in  their  sleep,  Heinrich  in  his  native  German  and  the 
other  in  his  English,  showing  the  restlessness  of  over- 
fatigue, while  I  sat  wondering  that  I,  so  lately  a  poor 
invalid,  should  now  be  in  this  wild  region,  exposed  to 
such  nights  of  discomfort  and  days  of  toil. 


184  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

In  the  morning  I  met  an  American  gentleman  return- 
ing from  the  summit  of  the  St.  Gothard  Pass,  and  he  ad- 
vised me  strenuously  not  to  go  farther  up,  unless  I  were 
going  into  Italy.  The  most  wonderful  of  the  engineer- 
ing in  the  construction  of  the  road  I  had  already  seen, 
and  there  was  nothing  else  of  interest  above.  The  same 
savage  scenery,  in  the  midst  of  which  the  Reuss  leaps 
down  two  thousand  feet  in  the  course  of  a  two  hours' 
walk,  is  continued,  and  the  dreariness  of  desolation  reigns 
alone.  A  house  for  the  accommodation  of  travelers  has 
been  maintained  for  hundreds  of  years,  destroyed  at  times 
and  then  restored  ;  and  a  few  monks  have  been  supported 
here  to  extend  what  aid  they  may  to  those  who  require 
their  assistance.  I  resolved  to  pursue  my  route  through 
the  Furca  Pass,  one  of  the  most  romantic  and  interesting 
of  all  the  passes  in  Switzerland.  A  long  day's  walk  it 
would  be  over  frozen  mountains  and  by  the  side  of  never- 
melting  glaciers,  and  no  carriage-way.  Nothing  but  a 
bridle  and  foot  path,  and  a  rough  one,  too,  was  now  before 
us ;  and  if  we  left  the  present  road,  and  struck  off  over 
the  Furca,  it  would  be  four  or  five  days  at  least  before 
we  should  reach  the  routes  which  are  traversed  by  wheels. 
Our  baggage,  though  but  a  bag  apiece  and  blankets,  was 
too  heavy  for  us  to  carry  if  we  walked,  and  I  proposed 
to  my  companions  that  we  hire  a  horse,  put  on  him  our 
three  bundles,  and  take  turns  riding — or,  more  elegantly, 
ride  by  turns.  Heinrich  had  never  heard  of  the  mode 
of  traveling  called  "ride  and  tie,"  and  he  was  greatly 
amused  when  I  described  it  to  him  over  a  very  comforta- 
ble cup  of  coffee.  An  idle  group  of  guides  and  tavern- 
hangers  were  gaping  around,  and  a  party  of  Germans  and 
English  were  looking  on  when  I  bestrode  the  horse,  and 
took  my  seat  in  the  midst  of  bundles  rising  before  and 


A    NIGHT   AND   A    DAY    IN    THE   ALPS.  1 85 

behind,  like  the  humps  of  a  camel.  Behold  us  now  upon 
our  winding  way.  We  are  yet  in  the  vale  of  Urseren, 
not  more  than  a  mile  wide,  and  lofty  mountains  flanking 
its  sides.  The  mountain  of  St.  Anna  is  clad  with  a  gla- 
cier, from  which  the  "  thunderbolts  of  snow  "  come  down 
with  terrific  power  in  the  spring;  and  yet  there  stands  a 
forest  in  the  form  of  a  triangle,  pointing  upward,  and  so 
placed  that  the  slides  of  snow  as  they  come  down  are 
broken  in  pieces  and  guided  away  from  the  village  be- 
low. The  great  business  of  the  people  in  this  vale  is  to 
keep  cattle  and  to  fleece  the  strangers  who  travel  in 
throngs  over  the  Pass  of  St.  Gothard.  Hundreds  of  horses 
are  kept  for  hire,  and  nothing  is  to  be  had  by  a  "foreign- 
er "  unless  he  pay  an  exorbitant  price.  Even  the  spec- 
imens of  minerals  are  held  so  high  that  no  reasonable 
man  can  afford  to  buy  them.  But  we  are  now  leaving 
Andermatt ;  and  on  the  side  of  the  road  not  long  after 
leaving  the  village  we  saw  two  stone  pillars,  which  need 
but  a  beam  to  be  laid  across  them,  and  they  make  a  gal- 
lows, on  which  criminals  were  formerly  hung,  when  this 
little  valley,  like  Gersau  on  the  lake,  was  an  independent 
state.  .  The  pillars  are  still  preserved  with  care,  as  a  me- 
morial of  the  former  sovereignty  of  the  community.  We 
reached  Hospenthal  in  a  few  moments :  a  cluster  of 
houses  about  a  church,  and  with  a  tower  above  the  ham- 
let which  is  attributed  to  the  Lombards.  I  was  struck 
with  the  exceeding  loneliness  and  forsakenness  of  this 
spot.  It  seemed  that  men  had  once  been  here,  but  had 
retired  from  so  wild  and  barren  a  land  to  some  more 
genial  clime.  Hospenthal  has  a  hotel  or  two,  and  it  is  a 
great  halting-place  for  travelers  who  are  about  to  take 
our  route  over  the  Furca  to  the  Hospice  of  the  Grimsel. 
Here  we  quit  the  St.  Gothard  road,  and  winding  off  by  a 


l86  UNDER    THE   TREES. 

narrow  path  in  which  we  can  go  only  in  single  file,  we 
are  soon  out  of  the  vale,  and  slowly  making  our  way  up 
the  mountain.  The  hill -sides  are  dotted  with  the  huts 
of  the  poor  peasants,  who  have  hard  work  to  hold  fast  to 
the  slopes  with  one  hand  while  they  work  for  a  miserable 
living  with  the  other.  The  morning  sun  was  playing  on 
the  blue  glacier  of  St.  Anna,  and  a  blue  waterfall  wander- 
ed and  tumbled  down  the  mountain ;  yet  this  was  but 
one  of  many  of  the  same  kind  that  we  are  constantly 
meeting  as  we  go  through  these  defiles  of  the  high  Alps. 
The  vast  masses  of  snow  and  ice  on  the  summits  are 
sending  down  streams  through  the  summer,  and  these 
sometimes  leap  from  rock  to  rock,  and  again  they  clear 
hundreds  of  feet  at  a  single  bound ;  slender,  like  a  long 
white  scarf  on  the  green  hill,  but  very  picturesque  and 
beautiful.  At  the  foot  of  this  mountain  are  the  remains 
of  an  awful  avalanche,  which  buried  a  little  hamlet  here 
in  a  sudden  grave,  and  a  sad  story  of  a  maiden  and  a 
babe  who  perished  was  told  me  with  much  feeling  by  the 
guide  as  we  passed  over  the  spot.  The  peasant  men  and 
women  were  bringing  down  bundles  of  hay  on  their  heads 
and  shoulders  from  the  scanty  meadows  which  here  and 
there  in  a  warm  bosom  of  the  hills  may  be  found  ;  and  as 
they  descended  I  recalled  the  story  of  Orpheus,  at  whose 
music  the  trees  are  said  to  have  followed  him,  and  I 
could  readily  understand  that  such  a  procession  as  I  now 
saw  on  these  mountains  might  be  taken  or  mistaken  for 
the  marching  of  a  young  forest.  We  are  still  following 
up  the  River  Reuss  toward  its  source,  and  though  it  is 
narrower,  it  is  often  fiercer,  and  makes  longer  strides  at 
a  step  than  it  did  last  evening.  We  cross  it  now  and 
then  on  occasional  stones  or  on  rude  logs ;  but  we  have 
now  come  to  a  passage  where  the  bridge  was  swept  away 


A    NIGHT   AND   A    DAY    IN   THE   ALPS.  187 

last  night  by  an  avalanche  of  earth  and  ice,  and  well  for 
us  that  it  came  in  the  night  before  we  were  here  to  be 
caught.  An  old  man  with  a  pick-axe  in  his  hand  had 
been  working  to  repair  the  crossing,  and  had  managed  to 
get  a  few  stones  arranged  so  that  foot-passengers  could 
leap  over,  and  the  horses,  after  slight  hesitation  and  care- 
ful sounding  of  the  bottom,  took  to  the  torrent  and  waded 
safely  over.  I  held  my  feet  high  enough  to  escape  a 
wetting,  but  I  heard  a  lady  of  another  party  complaining 
bitterly  that  the  water  was  so  deep  or  her  foot  so  far 
down,  I  could  not  tell  which;  but  it  was  evident  that 
very  much  against  her  will  she  had  been  drawn  through 
the  river. 

At  Realp,  a  little  handful  of  houses,  we  found  a  small 
house  of  refreshment,  where  two  Capuchin  friars  resided 
to  minister  to  travelers ;  and  this  was  the  last  sign  of  a 
human  habitation  we  saw  for  some  weary  hours.  We 
were  now  so  far  up  in  the  world  that  the  snow  lay  in 
banks  by  the  side  of  the  path,  while  flowers — bright,  beau- 
tiful flowers — were  blooming  in  the  sun.  It  is  difficult  to 
reconcile  this  apparent  contradiction  in  nature.  The  fact 
is  not  surprising  here,  where  we  see  such  vast  accumula- 
tions of  snow,  and  remember  that  a  short  summer  does 
not  suffice  to  melt  it ;  but  it  is  strange  to  read  of  flowery 
banks  within  a  few  feet  only  of  these  heaps  of  snow.  I 
counted  flowers  of  seven  distinct  colors,  and  gathered 
them  as  souvenirs  of  this  remarkable  region.  On  the 
right  the  Galenstock  Glacier  now  appears,  and  out  of  it 
vast  towering  rocks  like  the  battlements  of  some  old  cas- 
tle shoot  10,900  feet  into  the  air.  It  was  a  glorious  sight. 
There  was  brightness,  strength,  majesty,  beauty,  but  it  was 
nothing  compared  with  what  we  saw  before  the  sun  went 
down.     We  are  now  among  the  ice  palaces  of  the  earth. 


155  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

We  were  just  making  the  last  sharp  ascent  before  reach- 
ing the  summit  of  the  Furca,  when  I  overtook  a  lady  sit- 
ting disconsolately  on  the  wayside.  She  cried  out  as 
soon  as  I  came  up,  "  Oh,  sir,  my  guide  is  such  a  brute — 
the  saddle  turns  under  me,  and  I  can  not  get  him  to  fix 
it — my  husband  has  gone  on  before  me — I  can  not  speak 
a  word  of  German,  and  the  dumb  fool  can  not  speak  a 
word  of  English.  What  shall  I  do  ?"  "  Madam,"  said  I, 
"my  guide  shall  arrange  your  saddle  in  an  instant,  and 
I  will  conduct  you  to  the  summit,  where  the  rest  of  your 
party  will  doubtless  wait."  She  overpowered  me  with 
her  expressions  of  gratitude;  and  while  the  man  was  put- 
ting her  saddle-girths  to  rights  we  crossed  a  vast  snow 
bank  together,  climbed  the  steep  pitch,  and  in  ten  minutes 
reached  the  inn  at  the  top  of  the  Furca.  Distant  glaciers, 
snow-clad  summits,  ridges,  and  ranges,  named  and  un- 
named, stood  around  me — a  world  without  inhabitants, 
desolate,  cold,  and  grand  in  its  icy  canopy  and  hoary 
robes  of  snow. 

The  descent  was  too  rapid  and  severe  for  riding,  and 
giving  the  horse  into  the  charge  of  the  guide,  we  walked 
down,  discoursing  by  the  way  of  things  rarely  talked  of  in 
the  Alps.  My  young  German  friend  was  a  philosopher  of 
the  sentimental  school,  with  all  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
French  character  joined  to  the  mysticism  of  his  own  na- 
tion. He  was  well  read  in  English  literature  and  familiar 
with  ancient  and  modern  authors,  so  that  we  had  sources 
unfailing  to  entertain  us  as  we  wandered  on ;  now  sitting 
down  to  rest,  and  now  bracing  ourselves  for  a  sharp  walk 
over  a  rugged  pass.  I  became  intensely  interested  in 
him,  though  I  had  constant  occasion  to  challenge  his 
opinions,  and  especially  to  contrast  his  philosophy  with 
the  revealed  wisdom  of  God.     We  had  spoken  of  these 


A    NIGHT   AND    A    DAY    IN    THE   ALPS.  1 89 

things  for  an  hour  or  more,  when  I  asked  him  if  he  had 
ever  read  the  "  Pilgrim's  Progress  '"  and  when  I  found  he 
had  not,  I  told  him  the  design  of  the  allegory,  and  said, 
"We  are  pilgrims  over  these  mountains,  and  have  been 
cheering  one  another  with  pleasing  discourse,  as  the  trav- 
elers did  on  their  way  to  the  celestial  city.  They  came 
at  last  in  sight  of  its  gates  of  pearl." 

"But  what  is  that?" 

We  had  suddenly  turned  the  shoulder  of  a  hill,  and  a 
glacier  of  such  splendor  and  extent  burst  upon  our  view 
as  if  to  fix  us  to  the  spot  in  silent  but  excited  admiration. 
It  was  the  first  we  had  seen  near  us.  Others  had  been 
lying  away  in  the  far  heights,  their  surface  smoothed  by 
the  distance,  and  their  color  a  dull  blue ;  but  now  we 
were  at  the  foot  of  a  mountain  of  ice.  We  could  stand 
upon  it,  walk  on  its  face,  gaze  on  its  form  and  features, 
wonder,  admire,  look  above  it  and  adore.  This  was  the 
Glacier  of  the  Rhone.  That  great  river  springs  from  the 
bosom  of  this  glacier  with  a  strong  bound,  as  if  suddenly 
summoned  into  being,  works  its  way  through  a  mighty 
cavern  of  ice,  and  then  winds  along  the  base,  till  it 
emerges  in  a  roaring,  milky- white  stream,  and  rushes 
down  the  valley  toward  the  sea.  This  glacier  has  been 
called  a  "  magnificent  sea  of  ice."  It  is  not  so.  That 
description  conveys  no  intelligible  idea  of  the  stupendous 
scene.  You  have  stood  in  front  of  the  American  Fall, 
not  the  Horse -shoe  Fall,  .of  Niagara.  Extend  that  fall 
far  up  the  rapids,  gradually  receding  as  it  rises  a  thousand 
feet  or  more  from  where  you  stand  to  the  crest ;  at  each 
side  of  it  let  a  tall  mountain  rise  as  a  giant  framework  on 
which  the  tableau  is  to  rest ;  then  suddenly  congeal  this 
cataract,  with  its  curling  waves,  its  clouds  of  spray,  its 
falling  showers  of  jewelry ;  point  its  brow  with  pinnacles 


190  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

of  ice,  and  then  let  the  bright  sun  pour  on  it  his  beams, 
giving  the  brilliancy,  not  of  snow,  but  of  polished  ice  to 
the  vast  hill-side  before  you,  and  you  will  then  have  but 
a  faint  conception  of  the  grandeur  of  this  glacier  as  I  saw 
it  that  afternoon. 

Heinrich  cited  Burke's  definition  of  the  sublime,  and 
said  that  all  the  elements  of  sublimity  were  here.  I  re- 
plied that  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  have  the  sensation 
of  fear,  and  scarcely  of  awe,  in  looking  upon  the  scene  be- 
fore us ;  it  rather  had  to  me  the  image  of  the  outer  walls 
of  heaven,  as  if  there  must  be  infinite  glory  within  and 
beyond,  when  such  majesty  and  beauty  were  without. 
And  then  these  flowers  skirting  the  borders  of  this  frozen 
pile,  and  smiling  as  lovely  as  beneath  the  sunniest  slope 
in  Italy,  forbade  the  idea  that  this  crystal  mountain  was 
of  ice.  It  must  be  an  illusion  of  an  hour;  and  if  we  re- 
turn to-morrow,  will  it  not  have  disappeared? 

No,  not  at  all.  These  glaciers  .are  the  great  reservoirs 
that  feed  all  the  springs  and  fill  all  the  rivers  of  the  con- 
tinent ;  they  are  placed  away  up  there  where  they  yield 
only  to  the  heat  of  high  summer,  and  send  down  their 
waters  to  supply  the  fountains  that  otherwise  would  be 
dry ;  and  thus,  in  all  their  coldness  and  apparent  useless- 
ness,  they  are  among  the  greatest  blessings  of  the  human 
race. 

I  must  pass  rapidly  over  the  remainder  of  that  day's 
journey :  the  game  at  snow-balling  which  we  had  on  this 
glacier;  my  interview  with  a  man  who  had  fallen  into 
one  of  the  many  crevices  of  these  glaciers,  and  from  the 
depths  of  seventy  feet  had  cut  his  way  up  with  a  hatchet, 
and  thus  rescued  himself  from  an  icy  grave.  I  shall  not 
even  speak  of  the  ascent  of  the  Grimsel,  but  ask  you  to 
come  with  me  at  once  to  the  summit,  where  there  is  a 


A   NIGHT   AND   A   DAY   IN   THE   ALPS.  191 

lake  called  the  Dead  Sea,  or  the  Lake  of  the  Dead,  into 
which  the  bodies  of  those  who  perished  in  making  this 
journey  were  formally  cast  for  burial.  Heinrich  and  I 
left  the  path  and  climbed  to  a  cliff,  where  we  looked  down 
on  the  pilgrim  parties  on  horse  and  on  foot,  winding 
their  way  along  the  borders  of  this  dark  lake,  and  a  more 
romantic  sight  I  have  not  seen.  We  sent  our  guide  on- 
ward to  engage  beds  for  us  at  the  Hospice  of  the  Grimsel, 
and  resolved  to  spend  the  rest  of  the  day  (the  sun  was 
yet  three  hours  high)  in  this  wilderness  of  mountain 
scenery. 

We  could  now  look  down  into  the  valley  of  the  Grim- 
sel, a  little  valley,  but  like  an  immense  caldron,  the  sides 
of  which  are  sterile  naked  rocks,  eight  hundred  feet  high. 
On  the  west  they  stand  like  the  walls  and  towers  of  a 
fortified  city,  and  in  the  bottom  of  the  vale  is  a  single 
house  and  a  small  lake  ;  but  a  flock  of  one  hundred  goats 
and  a  score  of  cows,  with  their  tinkling  bells,  are  picking 
a  scanty  sustenance  among  the  stones.  The  scene  was 
wild,  savage,  grand  indeed,  and  had  there  been  no  sun  to 
light  it  up  with  the  lustre  of  heaven,,  it  would  have  been 
dreary  and  dismal.  Heinrich  had  been  very  thoughtful 
for  about  an  hour.  He  had  discovered  that  my  thoughts 
turned  constantly  to  the  God  who  made  all  these  mount- 
ains, while  he  was  ever  studying  the  mountains  them- 
selves.    He  sat  down  on  a  rock,  and  said  : 

"Here  I  will  commune  with  Nature." 

I  replied,  "And  I  will  go  on  a  little  farther  and  com- 
mune with  God." 

"  Stay !"  he  cried  ;  "  I  would  go  with  you." 

"But  you  can  not  see  him,"  I  said.  "I  see  him  in  the 
mountain  and  the  glacier  and  the  flower;  I  hear  him  in 
the  torrent  and  the  still,  small  voice  of  the  rills  and  little 


I92  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

waterfalls  that  are  warbling  ever  in  our  ears.  I  feel  his 
presence  and  something  of  his  power.  I  beg  you  to  stay 
and  commune  with  Nature,  while  I  go  and  commune  with 
God." 

I  left  him  and  wandered  off  alone,  and  in  an  hour  went 
down  the  mountain,  and  to  my  chamber  in  the  Hospice. 
I  was  sitting  on  the  bedside,  arranging  the  flowers  I  had 
gathered  during  the  day,  when  Heinrich  entered,  and, 
giving  me  his  hand,  said  to  me — "  I  wish  you  would  speak 
more  to  me  of  God." 

He  sat  down  by  my  side,  and  I  asked  him  if  he  believed 
the  Bible,  to  be  the  Word  of  God. 

He  said  he  did,  but  he  would  examine  it  by  the  light 
of  history  and  reason,  and  reject  what  he  did  not  find  to 
be  true. 

"And  do  you  believe  that  the  soul  of  man  will  live 
hereafter  in  happiness  or  woe  ?" 

"  I  doubt,"  was  his  desponding  answer. 

I  then  addressed  him  tenderly :  "My  clear  young  friend, 
I  have  loved  you  since  the  hour  I  met  you  at  Altorf.  And 
now  tell  me,  with  all  your  studies  have  you  yet  learned 
how  to  live  ?  You  doubt,  but  are  you  so  well  satisfied 
with  your  philosophy  that  you  are  able  to  look  on  death 
among  the  mountains  or  by  the  lightning  without  fear? 
My  faith  tells  me  that  when  I  die  my  life  and  joy  will 
just  begin,  and  go  on  in  glory  forever.  This  is  the  source 
of  all  my  hopes,  and  it  gives  me  comfort  now  when  I 
think  that  I  may  never  see  my  native  land  and  those  I 
love  on  earth  again.  I  know  that  in  another  land  we 
shall  meet." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  you  shall  meet  ?" 

"  My  faith  tells  me  so.  I  shall  meet  all  the  good  in 
heaven.     I  am  sure  of  one  child,  an  angel  now." 


A   NIGHT   AND   A   DAY    IN   THE   ALPS.  1 93 

"And  where  are  your  children?" 

"In  America,  and  one  in  heaven.  I  had  a  boy  four 
years  ago — earth  never  had  a  fairer.  His  locks  were  of 
gold,  and  hung  in  rich  curls  on  a  neck  and  shoulders 
whiter  than  the  snow ;  his  brow  was  high  and  broad  like 
an  infant  cherub's ;  and  his  eyes  were  blue  as  the  evening 
sky;  and  he  was  lovelier  than  he  was  fair.  But  in  the 
budding  of  his  beauty  he  fell  sick  and  died." 

"Oh  no,  not  died." 

"  Yes,  he  died  here  on  my  heart.  And  that  child  is  the 
only  one  of  mine  that  I  am  sure  of  ever  seeing  again." 

"  I  do  not  understand  you." 

"  If  my  other  children  grow  up  to  doubt,  as  you  doubt, 
they  may  wander  away  on  the  mountains  of  error  or  the 
glaciers  of  vice,  and  fall  into  some  awful  gulf  and  be 
lost  forever.  And  if  I  do  not  live  to  see  my  living  chil- 
dren, I  am  as  sure  of  meeting  th&t  one  now  in  heaven  as 
if  I  saw  him  there  in  the  light  of  the  setting  sun.  Hein- 
rich,  have  you  a  mother,  my  dear  friend  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  cried ;  "  and  her  faith  is  the  same  as 
yours." 

I  had  seen  his  eyes  filling,  and  had  felt  my  own  lips 
quivering  as  I  spoke,  but  now  he  burst  into  tears  and  fell 
on  my  breast  He  kissed  my  lips  and  my  cheeks  and 
my  forehead,  and  his  hot  tears  rained  on  my  face  and 
mingled  with  my  own.  "Oh  teach  me  the  way  to  feel 
and  believe,"  he  said  at  last,  as  he  clung  to  me  like  a 
frightened  child,  and  clasped  me  convulsively  to  his  heart. 
I  held  him  long  and  tenderly,  and  felt  for  him  somewhat, 
I  hope,  as  Jesus  did  for  the  young  man  who  came  to  him 
with  a  similar  inquiry.  I  loved  him,  and  longed  to  lead 
him  to  the  light  of  day. 

N 


194  UNDER    THE   TREES. 

This  was  more  than  twenty  years  ago.  My  young 
friend  wandered  with  me  among  the  Alps  for  some  weeks 
longer,  and  then  returned  home  —  and  I  went  into  the 
East.  He  is  now  a  learned,  able,  and  excellent  teacher 
of  Christian  theology  in  one  of  the  great  universities  of 
Germany.     I  often  hear  from  him,  and  love  him  yet. 


XIX. 

A  NIGHT  AND  A  DAY  IN  THE  DEER 

It  was  just  the  length  of  time  that  Paul  said  he  was 
afloat,  when  recounting  the  hardships  he  had  endured. 
Doubtless  he  was  in  far  greater  danger  than  we,  and  had 
not  half  so  good  a  ship  as  ours  in  which  to  weather  the 
storm.  But  ours  was  a  very  small  affair  of  a  steamer,  and 
is  not  to  be  ill  spoken  of,  as  we  are  now  safe  on  shore. 

We  came  from  Florence  to  Leghorn  by  rail  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  day :  a  cloudy,  rainy,  but  very  calm,  dull  day  ; 
just  the  day  of  all  others  when  you  would  think  the  sea 
would  be  smooth.  We  had  bought  our  tickets  in  Flor- 
ence for  the  steamer  of  that  evening  from  Leghorn  to 
Genoa.  On  reaching  the  port  we  learned  that  the  steamer 
for  that  evening  was  the  Frci7icois  Marie,  lying  nearly  a 
mile  off  in  the  harbor,  in  the  midst  of  scores  of  other  ves- 
sels, and  of  course  indistinguishable  from  the  pier.  A 
little  row-boat  took  us  and  our  baggage  out  to  it.  Prob- 
ably had  we  seen  it  at  the  shore,  we  would  have  been 
disposed  to  lose  the  passage  money  and  wait  for  another 
ship.  It  was  a  small  iron  steamer,  a  screw,  of  two  hun- 
dred tons,  very  narrow,  and  by  the  side  of  others  near  she 
looked  very  diminutive,  and,  being  very  dirty,  was  decid- 
edly repulsive.  She  was  taking  in  her  freight — bales  of 
hemp  raised  in  the  northern  part  of  Italy,  and  now  shipped 
to  Marseilles.  Her  hold  was  filled  to  its  utmost  capacity, 
and  some  freight  was  left  for  which  there  was  no  room. 


196  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

We  knew  that  we  were  "heavy  laden."  Then  some  kegs 
of  specie  arrived.  This  was  encouraging,  for  money  is 
not  usually  sent  by  doubtful  carriers.  Then  came  the 
mails.  This  was  even  more  assuring.  It  was  the  regular 
mail  line:  every  night  from  Leghorn  to  Genoa. 

We  went  down  into  the  cabin.  It  was  just  wide  enough 
for  a  table,  and  a  passage  between  it  and  the  state-rooms. 
There  were  but  two  or  three  of  these  on  a  side,  but  they 
were  sufficiently  numerous,  as  we  two  were  the  only  pas- 
sengers. By-and-by  a  Maltese  gentleman  came  on  board 
and  raised  the  number  to  three.  The  sea  was  placid. 
The  rain  had  ceased.  The  sun  had  gone  down  in  a 
dense  black  mass  of  cloud  that  in  our  country  would 
have  presaged  a  storm,  but  the  rough  captain  assured  us 
that  we  should  have  a  beautiful  night,  and  be  in  Genoa 
before  daylight.  Eight  hours  was  the  usual  passage.  We 
were  to  sail  at  five.  Five  came,  and  the  freight  was  not 
on  board.  Six,  and  they  were  still  at  work  taking  in 
more.  The  lazy,  easy,  good-for-nothing  way  they  hoisted 
the  bales  was  amusing,  if  we  had  not  been  anxious  to  get 
off.  But  an  Italian  never  cares,  never  thinks,  how  long  it 
takes  him  to  do  any  thing.  The  only  thing  in  the  world 
he  has  enough  of  is  time.  .  He  can  spend  as  much  of  that 
as  he  pleases,  and  have  plenty  to  spare.  It  often  takes 
half  an  hour  to  get  a  draft  cashed  at  the  banker's.  The 
old  clerk,  or  the  old  banker  himself,  looks  at  your  letters, 
goes  and  consults  one  or  two  others  in  the  room,  sits 
down  at  his  desk,  takes  a  pinch  of  snuff,  comes  and  asks 
how  you  will  have  it,  in  gold  or  paper ;  returns  ;  reckons 
his  commission  of  half  per  cent.  ;  thinks  the  matter 
over  a  while ;  gives  his  nose  a  tremendous  blast  with  a 
silk  handkerchief;  and  finally,  after  you  have  given  two 
signatures  of  your  name,  he  gives  you  a  ticket  to  the 


A   NIGHT   AND   A   DAY    IN   THE   DEEP.  197 

cashier,  who  with  a  small  shovel  scoops  up  the  gold,  and 
it  is  yours.  The  same  indolent  habit  of  business  prevails 
in  every  department  of  life,  from  the  banker  to  the  boat- 
man and  stevedore.'  Passengers'  time  is  nothing.  The 
advertised  time  of  sailing  is  of  no  account.  They  go 
when  they  are  ready,  and  they  are  ready  when .  it  suits 
their  convenience  to  work  and  get  ready.  Seven  came, 
and  there  were  no  signs  of  sailing.  The  captain  came 
down  into  the  cabin,  took  up  a  trap-door,  and  into  it  went 
a  dirty  little  boy  of  his  —  more  like  a  son  of  Vulcan,  so 
black  with  coal  and  grime  he  was.  To  him  was  let  down 
the  specie ;  he  stowed  it  away  in  some  place  known  only 
to  him  and  the  captain.  The  trap-door  was  then  closed 
and  the  money  considered  safe.  Eight  o'clock  came,  and 
the  freight  was  all  in.  Dinner  had  been  served  to  us  in 
the  cabin,  for  which  we  were  charged  extra,  after  having 
paid  an  enormous  fare — $6  apiece — for  the  eight  hours' 
run.  Nine  o'clock  arrived,  and  soon  after  the  grinding 
of  the  screw  gave  sensible  notice  that  we  were  under  way. 
Smoothly  we  passed  out  of  the  harbor,  and  wearied  with 
a  long  and  tedious  day  of  waiting,  and  with  no  anxious 
thoughts  about  the  night,  we  went  to  bed  and  to  sleep. 

"  The  cradle  of  the  deep  "  is  favorable  to  sleep.  Many 
sleep  more  soundly  at  sea  than  on  shore.  Even  in  storms, 
the  motion,  if  somewhat  uniform,  does  not  always  disturb, 
and  the  berth  is  the  best  refuge  for  one  addicted  to  the 
sickness  of  the  sea.  About  midnight  a  crash  in  an  empty 
room  roused  us  from  sleep ;  a  shaky  berth  had  given  way 
in  a  sudden  lurch  of  the  ship.  We  were  rolling  out  also. 
The  next  moment  we  were  rolling  in,  and  quite  over  the 
other  way.  The  crash  of  the  waves  against  the  vessel, 
the  roar  of  the  wind,  the  unsteady  roll  and  pitch  of  the 
ship,  told  us  very  plainly  that  a  gale  was  on  us,  all  the 


198  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

more  unpleasant  as  it  was  sudden  and  unexpected.  My 
traveling  companion,  decidedly  more  aquatic  in  his  tastes 
and  habits  than  I,  clambered  up  the  stairs  to  take  ob- 
servations. It  was  a  night  when  the  blackness  of  dark- 
ness was  on  the  face  of  the  deep.  Rain  poured  in  tor- 
rents in  the  very  thick  of  a  furious  gale.  All  hands 
were  at  work  lashing  every  thing  fast,  and  putting  the 
little  craft  into  condition  for  the  worst  that  might  come. 
For  us  there  was  nothing  but  to  wait.  In  a  better  ship 
we  would  have  had  no  fears  of  the  results.  Doubtless 
the  vessel  had  gone  through  many  worse  nights  than 
this,  and  why  not  again  ?  Then  came  the  suggestions  of 
faith,  hope,  and  the  sweet  experience  of  other  dangers 
passed  safely ;  and  as  hours  dragged  themselves  slowly 
and  drearily  along,  we  used  all  these  sources  of  comfort 
and  found  them  good. 

At  such  times  one  studies  the  things  around  him  to 
form  some  estimate  of  the  rising  or  subsiding  of  the  gale. 
The  lamp  in  the  centre  of  the  cabin  swung  freely,  and 
this  was  a  pendulum  to  mark  the  length  of  every  roll. 
Soon  its  motion  became  too  swift  for  pleasant  contem- 
plation, and  the  glass  shade  was  smitten  by  striking  the 
ceiling.  Now  we  were  in  total  darkness.  The  steward 
rigged  another  lamp,  but  it  soon  went  over  and  out. 
Every  moment  the  sense  of  danger  became  more  ap- 
parent, yet  there  was  nothing  for  us  to  do  but  to  wait. 
The  hours  wore  on  slowly,  but  the  longest  and  darkest 
and  dreariest  night  in  the  world  has  a  morning  to  it,  and 
we  knew  there  was  one  to  ours.  A  tremendous  shock,  as 
if  some  new  engine  of  destruction  had  hurled  a  mountain 
against  the  ship,  and  for  a  moment  she  seemed  to  stop  in 
her  course,  to  shake  herself  from  stem  to  stern,  trembling 
and  uncertain  what  to  do ;  and  then  the  steady  screw 


A   NIGHT   AND   A    DAY    IN    THE    DEEP.  1 99 

screwed  on  and  on,  and  the  brave  little  vessel  emerged 
from  the  wave  that  had  smitten  and  covered  her  and 
moved  on  as  before.  Again  and  again,  in  the  thick  dark- 
ness of  this  tempestuous  night,  was  the  shock  repeated, 
and  as  often  we  paused,  hesitated,  and  then  plunged 
along.  "And  oh,  how  welcome  was  the  morning  light !" 
I  crept  up  in  my  berth  to  the  port-hole  above,  and  looked 
out  on  the  boiling  sea ;  it  seemed  to  be  rushing  up  from 
some  horrid  gulf  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  and  making 
sport  of  the  vessel,  that  danced  and  rolled  and  pitched 
like  an  eggshell  on  the  hissing  and  seething  caldron  of 
waters. 

At  this  juncture  word  was  brought  down  to  us  that  we 
had  better  get  ready  for  the  worst,  as  it  was  impossible 
to  say  what  was  before  us.  But  there  was  no  preparation 
necessary,  as  the  ship  was  the  safest  place,  and  one  part 
of  it  was  as  safe  as  another.  In  a  few  moments  we  were 
reassured.  No  danger  was  apprehendedo  Land  was  in 
sight.  We  knew  where  we  were.  That  was  some  com- 
fort. But  we  were  farther  from  Genoa,  our  destined  port, 
than  when  we  started  ten  hours  ago.  In  the  darkness 
of  the  night  it  was  safer  to  keep  off  the  coast;  we  had 
stood  out  to  sea,  had  shot  by  the  port,  and  now  took  the 
back  track  and  toiled  on,  the  storm  increasing  in  fury 
every  hour.  The  headlands  were  familiar  to  the  Corsican 
captain,  a  rough  fellow,  who  did  his  duty  as  well  as  he 
could  under  the  circumstances,  and  kept  sober,  to  my 
great  comfort.  It  was  in  the  afternoon  when  the  City  of 
Palaces — Genoa  the  Superb — burst  upon  our  sight.  The 
gale  had  not  abated,  but  the  rain  had  ceased ;  the  sun 
was  struggling  through  the  clouds,  and  a  blessed,  beautiful 
rainbow  was  spanning  the  city  with  its  arch  of  hope.  In 
1492  a  son  of  Genoa  discovered  America.     Not  to  him 


200  UNDER   THE    TREES. 

was  the  sight  of  our  land  more  grateful  than  that  of  his 
native  city  was  to  us  from  the  land  he.  found.  Our  sail- 
ors shook  hands,  laughed,  leaped,  and  danced  for  joy. 
Above  the  roar  of  the  winds  and  waves  I  heard  Grazie  a 
Dio — thanks  to  God — and  my  heart  echoed  the  praise. 
Two  hours  more  and  rougher  sailing  brought  us  safely 
into  port,  and  a  few  steps  into  the  snug  harbor  of  the 
Hotel  d'ltalie. 

This  storm  swept  the  sea  from  Naples  to  Gibraltar. 
Between  Naples  and  Leghorn  more  than  fifty  vessels 
were  driven  ashore  or  lost  at  sea.  A  great  number  of 
lives  were  lost.  For  weeks  afterward  the  newspapers 
had  reports  of  wrecks  all  along  the  coast.  The  day  after 
we  got  into  port  the  steamers  that  attempted  to  leave  the 
harbor  were  compelled  to  give  it  up  and  return.  For 
many  days  not  a  sail  was  to  be  seen  on  the  sea.  Between 
several  of  the  ports  navigation  was  suspended  for  a  week. 


XX. 

A  PARSON'S  STORY. 

It  is  not  a  romance.  It  is  a  narrative  of  facts,  which  I 
give  you  as  nearly  as  possible  in  the  words  of  the  village 
pastor : 

I. 

She  was  gasping  when  I  came  in.  Her  sickness  had 
been  sudden  and  severe,  and  before  we  were  prepared 
for  the  terrible  event,  we  knew  that  death  was  at  the 
door. 

The  house  in  which  Mrs.  Bell  had  lived  for  twenty 
years  was  an  old-fashioned  mansion  on  the  hill  overlook- 
ing the  village  and  the  bay,  and  a  wide  expanse  of  mead- 
ow that  stretched  away  to  the  water's  edge.  On  the  side 
toward  the  sea  was  a  long  piazza,  a  favorite  resort  of  the 
family  in  summer,  when  the  weather  was  pleasant.  I 
was  walking  on  it,  and  now  and  then  looking  off  upon 
the  world  below,  but  with  my  thoughts  more  turned  upon 
the  scenes  that  were  passing  within. 

I  had  been  sent  for  a  few  hours  before,  and  to  my  con- 
sternation and  grief  had  found  Mrs.  Bell  already  given  up 
by  her  physicians,  and  her  life  rapidly  rushing  to  its  close. 
Her  disease  was  inflammatory.  Its  progress  had  defied 
all  human  skill,  and  two  days  had  brought  her  to  this. 
It  was  hard  to  believe  it.  But  why  should  I  be  so  dis- 
tressed with  the  result,  when  others  were  suffering  an- 
guish which  even  my  sympathies  could  not  reach  to  re- 


202  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

lieve?  Exhausted  with  my  vain  but  earnest  efforts  to 
soothe  the  heart-rending  grief  of  those  who  clung  to  the 
dying,  I  had  left  the  chamber. 

Mrs.  Bell  was  a  member  of  my  church.  Mr.  Bell  was 
not.  He  was  reputed  to  be  a  man  of  means,  and  was 
known  to  be  living  easily,  doing  but  little  business,  and 
apparently  caring  for  nothing  in  the  future.  No  one  sus- 
pected that  this  indifference  had  resulted  in  the  gradual 
wasting  away  of  the  property  he  had  'inherited :  mort- 
gages covering  all  the  landed  estates  he  was  known  to 
possess,  till  even  the  homestead  was  in  danger. 

But  the  pride  of  my  parish  was  in  this  family.  Two 
daughters,  with  only  the  difference  of  a  year  in  their  ages, 
and  now  just  coming  up  into  womanhood,  were  the  only 
children  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bell.  Sarah  was  the  oldest, 
and  her  blue  eyes  and  yellow  hair  were  like  her  mother's, 
and  the  younger,  Mary,  had  inherited  from  her  father  a 
radiant  black  eye,  and  locks  of  the  raven  hue.  They 
were  sisters  in  heart,  soul,  and  mind,  though  a  stranger 
would  not  have  taken  them  to  be .  the  children  of  the 
same  mother.  Such  love  as  bound  them  was  wonderful 
to  me,  who,  as  the  pastor  of  the  family,  was  often  there, 
and  knew  them  well.  I  had  watched  its  growth  for  ten 
years,  and  frequently  had  remarked  that  it  exceeded  in 
tenderness  and  devotion  any  thing  of  the  kind  that  had 
ever  fallen  under  my  notice.  Mrs.  Bell  had  a  thousand- 
fold more  opportunities  of  putting  it  to  the  test,  and  of 
seeing  it  tried  in  the  daily  and  hourly  intercourse  of  the 
family,  and  she  had  told  me  that  she  had  never  known  a 
moment  of  failure  in  the  season  of  childhood  and  of 
youth,  when  the  temper  is  often  tried,  and  children  are 
called  on  to  make  sacrifices  for  one  another  in  little 
things,  far  greater  tests  of  love  than  the  struggles  of  aft- 


A   PARSON  S   STORY.  203 

er-life.  She  had  observed,  and  had  mentioned  to  me,  a 
mysterious  sympathy  between  them  even  from  very  early 
years.  Their  minds  were  turned  at  one  and  the  same 
moment  toward  the  same  subject,  when  there  appeared 
to  be  nothing  suggestive  of  the  train  of  thought  engaging 
them  both.  A  secret  thread  seemed  to  connect  their 
souls,  so  that  what  was  passing  in  one's  mind  was  often 
at  work  in  the  other's.  Instead  of  provoking  dissension, 
as  such  a  coincidence  would  naturally  produce,  it  was 
rather  a  bond  of  union,  leading  them  to  love  the  same 
pleasures;  and  to  study  and  labor  to  promote  each  other's 
joys.  This  was  the  more  remarkable  as  their  natural 
temperaments  were  unlike.  The  eldest  was  sanguine  and 
cheerful,  a  sunbeam  always  shining  in  the  house,  glad  and 
making  glad — the  brightest,  happiest,  gleefulest  girl  in 
my  parish.  Mary  was  sedate.  Like  her  father,  she  was 
not  inclined  to  action.  Even  in  her  childhood  a  tinge  of 
melancholy  gave  a  coloring  to  her  life.  She  was  fond  of 
reading  and  retirement.  When  alone,  her  thoughts  were 
her  own.  Her  love  for  Sarah,  and  her  filial  love,  made 
her  faithful  as  a  sister  and  a  child ;  but  there  was  a  trait 
of  character  in  which  her  sister,  with  all  their  sympathy, 
did  not  share.  It  was  requisite,  this  contrast,  to  make 
them  two.  There  was  individuality,  notwithstanding  the 
kin-tie  of  spirit  binding  them  as  one,  in  a  deep,  earnest, 
true-hearted  love  that  knew  no  break  or  change.  But  I 
am  dwelling  on  these  features  of  the  children  while  the 
mother  is  dying.  I  was  walking  up  and  down  the  piazza, 
thinking  of  the  awful  work  death  was  making  in  this 
house ;  of  the  wondrous  love  that  bound  mother  and 
daughters,  now  to  be  no  barrier  in  the  way  of  this  fell  de- 
stroyer, half  wishing  I  had  the  power  to  stay  his  arm, ' 
and  drive  him  out  of  the  paradise  he  was  about  to  blast 


204  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

with  his  breath,  when  a  servant  summoned  me  to  the 
chamber. 

She  was  gasping  as  I  entered.  The  fever  raging  in 
her  veins  had  suffused  her  cheeks  with  crimson  ;  the  rich 
hair,  which,  according  to  the  custom  of  the  times  —  for 
this  was  many,  many  years  ago — she  had  worn  in  a  mass 
sustained  by  a  comb  on  the  back  of  her  head,  now  hung 
in  great  ringlets  on  her  shoulders,  and  her  eyes,  sparkling 
with  the  last  light  of  life,  were  fixed  on  her  daughters 
kneeling  at  the  bedside,  giving  vent  to  their  bitter  grief 
in  floods  of  tears,  and  sobs  they  strove  in  vain  to  sup- 
press. 

Yet  she  knew  me.  She  raised  her  hand  as  I  came  in, 
and  said  to  me  as  I  approached,  "  I  know  that  my  Re- 
deemer liveth."  Before  I  could  find  words,  she  added : 
"  My  children  —  the  poor  girls  —  be  kind  to  them  —  be 
a  friend  to  my  dear  husband."  It  was  her  last  effort. 
While  I  had  been  out  of  the  room  she  had  taken  leave 
of  those  dearest  in  life,  and  was  now  breathing  away  her 
spirit  calmly,  for  she  was  not  afraid  to  die — peacefully, 
for  the  pains  of  death  were  past. 

It  was  all  over.  The  stricken  daughters  were  borne 
from  the  room  by  kind  friends.  The  husband,  betraying 
less  emotion  than  we  thought  he  would  show  in  the  midst 
of  such  a  scene,  retired,  and  I  was  for  a  moment  alone 
with  the  dead.  Wondrous  the  change  that  an  instant 
had  wrought!  Out  on  an  unknown  sea  the  soul  had 
drifted,  and  left  this  wreck  upon  the  shore — a  dissolving 
hulk — a  heap  of  clay  that  would  soon  be  loathsome  to 
those  who  an  hour  ago  were  hanging  over  it  with  intens- 
est  love,  covering  it  with  kisses,  and  folding  it  in  their 
arms.  They  call  this  awful  work  by  the  name  of  death. 
But  this  is  not  the  last  of  Mrs.  Bell— the  lovely,  living  Mrs. 


a  parson's  story.  205 

Bell.  She  is  not  dead.  This  is  not  the  wife,  the  mother, 
the  friend.  She  is  not  here.  And  as  she  is  not  here,  we 
can  do  nothing  more  for  her. 

A  few  days  afterward  we  laid  her  in  the  grave.  She 
was  a  great  favorite  among  our  people,  and  they  were  all 
present  at  her  burial.  The  grief  of  the  daughters  was 
for  the  present  inconsolable  ;  it  was  kindness  to  let  them 
weep  freely,  and  have  their  own  way  in  the  first  gush  of 
their  great  sorrow.  Perhaps  time  would  do  something 
for  them.  Religion  would  shed  a  soothing  influence  over 
their  crushed  and  bleeding  hearts,  but  now  it  was  better 
to  let  the  streams  of  affection  flow  along  in  these  gushing 
tears,  for  there  is  a  medicine  in  weeping  that  is  the  first 
remedy  of  grief. 

II. 

Mr.  Bell  died  in  less  than  a  year.  He  was  seized  with 
a  fit  of  apoplexy  while  sitting  on  the  piazza  after  dinner, 
and  died  without  a  word. 

The  daughters  were  not  at  home,  but  were  sent  for  in 
haste,  and  arrived  just  as  I  did,  being  called  again  to 
the  house  where  so  recently  I  had  seen  the  fairest  and 
fondest  of  mothers  expire.  The  body  of  Mr.  Bell,  dress- 
ed as  he  died,  was  lying  on  the  same  bed  which  I  had 
last  seen  when  the  corpse  of  his  wife  was  there.  It 
seemed  but  the  day  before.  Not  a  change  had  been 
made.  The  same  Bible  lay  on  the  same  stand,  near  the 
bed,  and  I  had  heard  that  he  read  it  oftener  since  the 
death  of  his  wife.  The  same  bureau  with  drawers  and 
covered  with  a  white  cloth,  a  few  choice  books  standing 
on  it,  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  room,  and  a  large  easy- 
chair  stuffed  and  clothed  with  dimity,  and  a  few  simple 
but  very  convenient  articles  completed  the  furniture  of 


206  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

the  apartment.  But  instead  of  the  pale  form  of  my  gen- 
tle friend,  Mrs.  Bell,  lovely  even  in  death,  there  was  lying 
on  that  white  counterpane  the  large  and  now  blackened 
corpse  of  her  husband.  The  physician,  who  had  been 
early  on  the  ground,  had  found  him  dead.  The  case  was 
a  plain  one.  Indeed,  he  had  been  often  warned  of  such 
an  event,  but  his  habitual  fondness  for  putting  things  off 
had  led  him  to  neglect  all  means  of  improving  or  pre- 
serving his  health,  and  he  had  been  cut  down  in  the  midst 
of  his  days. 

But  the  daughters.  They  were  orphans  now.  They 
clung  to  me  as  to  the  friend  on  whom  they  might  lean, 
and  who  would  not  forget  the  dying  request  of  their  saint- 
ed mother.  They  had  loved  their  father  with  all  the  ear- 
nestness of  their  nature,  and  all  the  more  since  the  death 
of  their  mother  had  made  him  dependent  on  them  for  a 
thousand  nameless  acts  and  arts  of  kindness  which  he 
had  ever  received  from  his  faithful  wife.  And  the  lone- 
liness that  now  lay  before  them  was  so  appalling  that 
they  feared  to  look  into  the  future.  They  had  no  broth- 
er, no  relative  to  whom  they  might  turn.  It  was  not 
strange  that  such  thoughts  pressed  on  them,  even  at  the 
side  of  their  dead  father,  and  that  in  the  midst  of  .their 
anguish  under  this  sudden  and  overwhelming  blow  they 
should  every  now  and  then  cry  out,  "  What  shall  we  do  ?" 
And  who  could  answer  the  question  ? 

If  it  were  a  sad  and  fearful  inquiry  while  as  yet  we 
believed  that  Mr.  Bell  had  left  behind  him  a  large  and 
handsome  property,  it  was  more  distressing  still  when  a 
few  weeks  after  his  death  it  was  discovered  that  he  was 
hopelessly  involved  in  debt,  and  after  the  claims  of  his 
creditors  were  but  partially  satisfied,  it  would  leave  noth- 
ing— not  a  cent,  not  the  homestead,  not  the  house,  not 


A    PARSON  S    STORY.  207 

even  the  furniture — to  his  daughters.  He  was  a  bankrupt, 
and  had  been  for  a  long  time  past;  but  he  had  no  energy 
to  meet  the  calamity,  and  death  came  on  him  just  as  his 
affairs  were  reaching  a  crisis  that  put  further  concealment 
of  the  state  of  his  affairs  out  of  the  question.  Perhaps 
the  coming  disclosure  hastened  the  blow  that  killed  him. 
But  the  facts  could  no  longer  be  hid  even  from  those 
whom  they  must  crush.  Poor  girls !  In  every  sense 
that  makes  the  word  poor  a  term  of  pity,  these  girls  were 
now  poor  indeed.  Had  it  been  possible  for  me  in  my 
circumstances  to  have  assumed  the  burden,  I  would  glad- 
ly have  taken  them  to  my  own  home,  and  made  them 
sharers  with  my  children  in  the  weal  or  woe  in  store  for 
us  all.  This  I  could  not  in  justice  do.  But  something 
must  be  done,  and  that  with  no  delay.  The  estate  was 
administered  upon  in  a  few  weeks,  and  as  there  were  no 
funds  to  meet  the  debts,  the  law  took  its  course,  and  the 
orphans  were  homeless. 

Their  education  had  been  domestic.  Mrs.  Bell  had 
been  their  teacher.  They  were  well-read  girls,  but  not 
fitted  to  teach  others.  So  that  door  was  not  open  to 
them.  Sarah  particularly,  with  a  fine  imagination  and  a 
decidedly  poetical  turn  of  mind,  was  familiar  with  the  lit- 
erature of  her  own  language,  which  she  was  accustomed 
to  read  with  her  mother.  Many  of  her  letters  are  now 
in  my  possession,  and  they  are  clothed  in  language  at 
once  graceful  and  rich,  and  some  of  them  are  beautiful  in 
style  and  thought.  Mary  had  less  taste  for  reading,  yet 
she  thought  more  and  felt  deeper  than  her  sister.  In  the 
retirement  of  that  home  circle  the  mother  and  daughters, 
with  an  industry  more  common  perhaps  in  those  days 
than  it  is  in  the  present,  had  made  needle-work  their, 
chief  employment ;  and  it  was  natural  that  the  girls  should 


208  UNDER   THE    TREES. 

turn  to  that  in  which  they  were  the  most  expert  as  the 
means  on  which  they  must  rely  for  their  main  support, 
now  that  they  were  thrown  upon  their  own  resources  or 
upon  the  charity  of  the  world.  They  had  too  much  self- 
reliance  and  too  much  confidence  in  God  to  trust  them- 
selves to  the  kindness  of  friends  who,  in  the  impulse  of 
sudden  sympathy,  might  offer  to  do  for  them  what  would 
soon  prove  to  be  a  task  and  a  burden.  No  ;  they  would 
meet  the  emergency  with  the  energy  of  faith  and  hope, 
knowing  that  God  helps  those  who  help  themselves. 
They  gave  themselves  scant  time  for  mourning.  They 
left  the  home  of  their  infancy  and  childhood — the  third 
great  sorrow  of  their  lives.  But  now  that  father  and 
mother  were  both  gone,  even  the  honeysuckle  that  climb- 
ed up  the  piazza,  and  the  beds  of  flowers  they  had  plant- 
ed and  tended  with  their  own  hands,  and  the  fruit  that 
hung  in  rich  abundance  in  the  garden,  lost  half  their  val- 
ue— they  served  rather  to  remind  them  of  days  when  in 
happy  youth  they  had  enjoyed  them  all  with  the  parents 
they  had  lost ;  and  it  was  almost  a  relief  to  turn  their 
backs  upon  the  home  they  had  loved,  and  seek  a  hum- 
ble lodging  in  the  village. 

III. 
For  they  are  sewing-girls  now.  It  was  nothing  that 
they  were  young  and  pretty  and  well-bred.  They  must 
have  food  and  raiment  and  shelter,  and  they  could  earn 
all  by  the  labor  of  their  hands.  They  were  not  the  girls 
to  shrink  from  the  contest  with  pride  and  opinion,  and  the 
thousand  and  one  mortifications  to  which  this  new  and 
trying  life  would  lead.  Sarah  led  and  Mary  followed. 
They  had  no  words  about  it.  Sarah  proposed  it,  and 
Mary  had  been  thinking  of  the  same  plan.     It  was  the 


a  parson's  story.  209 

only  one  before  them.  And  it  was  not  so  hopeless  as  it 
might  be.  They  had  many  friends.  They  would  find 
work,  plenty  of  it,  and  it  would  be  sweeter  to  live  on  the 
bread  of  honest  industry  than  to  ask  the  charity  of  any 
one,  or  to  receive  it  without  asking.  It  was  a  noble  res- 
olution. They  consulted  me  before  coming  to  a  decis- 
ion, and  I  could  not  oppose  their  scheme,  though  I  had 
no  heart  to  counsel  them  to  go  on  with  it.  The  future 
would  be  so  unlike  the  past.  These  sensitive  natures — 
these  children  as  they  were  to  me,  who  had  known  them 
so  long  as  children  only — to  be  exposed  to  the  rough- 
and-tumble  of  the  life  of  orphans,  was  bad  enough  under 
almost  any  aspect  of  the  case.  But  to  be  harassed  by 
the  daily  vexations,  and  wearied  by  the  daily  toils  of  the 
life  of  a  seamstress,  was  more  than  I  could  think  of  with- 
out tears ;  and  I  admired  the  fortitude  with  which  they 
addressed  themselves  to  the  work  they  had  assumed. 

Mrs.  Benson  was  a  friend  indeed.  She  was  of  one  of 
the  most  influential  families  in  my  flock,  and  had  been 
the  bosom  friend  of  Mrs.  Bell  while  she  was  yet  with  us. 
Mrs.  Benson  offered  the  girls  a  home,  and  when  they  de- 
clined her  generous  proposal,  she  insisted  on  their  look- 
ing to  her  as  to  a  mother  in  the  future,  whatever  might  be 
the  issue  of  the  new  and  untried  experiment  they  were 
about  to  make.  We  shall,  however,  overrate  the  heroism 
of  the  girls  if  we  measure  it  by  the  sacrifice  of  feeling 
which  such  a  mode  of  life  would  require  at  the  present 
time.  In  our  rural  village  of  a  thousand  inhabitants  the 
girls  would  not  be  the  less  esteemed  by  any  of  the  better 
sort  of  people  for  their  new  employment.  On  the  con- 
trary, the  door  of  every  house  would  be  open  to  them,  and 
every  voice  would  be  one  of  kindness  to  greet  them  when 
they  came. 

O 


2IO  UNDER   THE    TREES. 

"  I  shall  die,  I  know  I  shall,"  said  Mary,  as  they  were 
alone  in  the  snug  parlor  of  the  old  homestead  for  the  last 
time.  "  I  feel  it  here  " — as  she  laid  her  hand  on  her  side, 
and  pressed  her  beating  heart.  "I  can  never  leave  it, 
and  feel  that  it  is  to  be  no  home  of  ours  again." 

"  But,  Mary  dear,"  said  her  more  hopeful  sister,  "  we 
could  not  be  at  home  if  we  stayed  here.  It  is  all  gloomy 
now,  and  what  there  is  to  love  will  be  as  much  ours  here- 
after as  it  ever  was.  These  walks  will  be  here,  and  these 
trees  and  flowers,  and  we  will  often  come  and  look  on 
them ;  for  whoever  lives  here  will  never  deny  us  the  priv- 
ilege. And  we  are  to  do  for  ourselves  now.  It  is  too 
soon  to  be  discouraged.  God  will  help  us,  and  that  right 
early." 

"  Yes,  Sister  Sarah,  I  know  all  that,  and  more,  but  I 
am  afraid.  It  is  dreadful,  this  going  out  into  the  world 
alone.  It  looks  so  dark.  My  head  aches  when  I  think 
of  it.  A  great  black  cloud  seems  to  be  hanging  over  us ; 
and  sometimes  I  think  I  am  growing  blind,  every  thing 
is  so  dark  before  me.  Tell  me  now,  truly,  have  you  had 
no  such  fears  ?" 

"  But  I  will  not  give  them  room  in  my  thoughts  for  a 
moment.  They  do  come  to  me  as  to  you,  and  sometimes 
they  frighten  me,  but  I  drive  them  away,  and  look  to  God 
for  strength.  Fearful  thoughts  never  come  from  him. 
He  is  our  Father  now  more  than  ever,  and  has  promised 
that  he  will  never  leave  nor  forsake  us." 

Mary  was  silenced,  but  not  satisfied.  Sarah  could  thus 
reason  her  into  resignation,  but  it  was  still  very  dark  and 
trying  ;  and  to  her  desponding  nature  there  was  some- 
thing in  store  for  them  more  terrible  than  they  had  yet 
experienced.  The  presentiment  was  dim  and  might  be 
idle,  but  it  was  deep-seated  and  absorbing.     She  said  it 


A   PARSON'S    STORY.  211 

was  in  her  heart,  but  it  was  in  her  brain.  She  often 
pressed  her  hand  hard  on  her  forehead,  and  then  thrust 
her  head  into  Sarah's  bosom,  not  weeping,  but  asking  her 
sister  to  hide  her  from  the  terrible  fate  that  gathered 
about  her,  and  threatened  to  blast  them  both  in  the  morn- 
ing of  their  grief. 

IV. 

"  What  will  George  say  ?"  had  been  a  question  often 
on  Sarah's  mind  when  coming  to  this  decision,  that  she 
must  be  a  seamstress.  George  had  never  told  her  that 
he  loved  her,  but  he  had  been  kind  and  attentive,  and  a 
thousand  nameless  acts  had  given  her  the  assurance  that 
he  was  more  to  her  than  a  friend.  She  was  not  insensi- 
ble. Sarah  would  have  loved  him  had  he  sought  her 
love.  Happily  for  her  own  peace,  he  had  made  no  ad- 
vances; and  when  he  learned  that  she  and  her  sister  were 
not  only  orphans  but  poor,  he  discovered  that  he  had  no 
particular  regard  for  either  of  them,  and  with  no  words 
left  them  to  their  fate.  Perhaps  this  blow  to  Sarah's 
hopes,  for  she  had  hopes,  was  necessary  to  complete  the 
misery  of  her  portion.  A  noble,  faithful  friend  to  stand 
by  her  in  such  an  hour  would  have  been  like  life  to  the 
dead.  There  was  no  such  stay  for  her  now.  And  the 
two  sisters,  finding  that  few  friends  are  born  for  adversity, 
prepared  to  go  forth  hand  in  hand,  and  trusting  only  in 
God,  to  do  what  they  could  for  themselves. 

Mrs.  Benson  was  always  ready  with  plenty  of  work  for 
them  when  they  had  nothing  to  do  elsewhere.  She  made 
it  for  them,  not  that  she  had  need  of  their  aid,  and  so 
cheated  them  into  the  belief  that  they  were  indispensable 
for  her  comfort,  while  she  was  only  ministering  to  theirs. 


212  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

V. 

Mrs.  Flint  was  the  housekeeper  of  Mrs.  Benson.  She 
had  now  held  tfris  situation  for  many  years,  never  gaining 
the  confidence  of  the  lady  whose  domestic  affairs  she  had 
superintended  with  so  much  zeal  and  discretion  as  to 
render  herself  indispensable  to  the  house.  But  she  was 
very  far  from  securing  the-  affections  of  any  of  its  inmates. 
A  married  daughter  of  hers  in  the  village  was  even  less  a 
favorite  than  she  in  the  family  of  Mrs.  Benson.  Perhaps 
the  evident  partiality  which  Mrs.  Benson  had  exhibited 
for  the  young  ladies,  who  were  now  hex  protegees,  and  her 
failure  to  interest  Mrs.  Benson  in  her  daughter,  may  have 
been  the  occasion  of  a  feeling  of  enmity  which  she  had 
cherished  toward  these  girls  ever  since  they  had  become 
the  occasional  members  of  the  family.  Yet  it  is  needless 
to  speculate  upon  the  causes  which  led  to  the  indulgence 
of  such  feelings.  A  bad  heart  affords  the  only  explana- 
tion of  the  phenomenon  ;  for  such  it  certainly  appears  to 
anyone  who  came  to  the  knowledge  of  the  fact  that  a  wom- 
an could  cherish  in  her  heart  a  desire  to  injure  two  un- 
protected orphans,  whose  helpless  situation  and  exceeding 
innocence  of  character  won  for  them  the  universal  love 
and  confidence  of  the  community.  Without  stopping, 
therefore,  to  speculate  upon  the  causes  of  her  enmity,  it  is 
enough  to  say  that  she  conceived  and  carried  into  execu- 
tion a  plan  for  the  destruction  of  their  character.  She 
accused  them  to  Mrs.  Benson  of  having  purloined  many 
articles  of  clothing  ;  and  when  the  declaration  was  made, 
and  was  received  by  Mrs.  Benson  with  indignant  excla- 
mations of  incredulity,  she  demanded  that  the  basket 
which  they  had  brought  with  them  should  be  searched, 
and  expressed  her  willingness  to  abide  by  the  result  of 


A    PARSONS    STORY.  213 

the  examination.  She  declared  that  she  had  seen  one  of 
them  coming  from  the  wardrobe  in  the  morning,  and  un- 
der circumstances  that  left  no  doubt  upon  her  own  mind 
that  she  had  been  there  for  no  proper  purpose. 

More  for  the  sake  of  convincing  her  housekeeper  of  the 
innocence  of  those  whom  she  had  so  recklessly  accused 
than  with  any  idea  of  making  a  discovery  that  should 
even  awaken  suspicion  in  her  own  mind,  Mrs.  Benson 
consented  to  the  search ;  and  while  the  girls  were  engaged 
upon  their  work  below,  Mrs.  Benson  and  the  housekeeper 
proceeded  to  the  apartment  which  had  been  occupied  by 
the  girls,  where  Mrs.  Flint  immediately  produced  from  the 
bottom  of  the  basket  the  articles,  of  no  great  value,  to  be 
sure,  but  enough  to  fix  upon  them  the  guilt  which  Mrs. 
Flint  had  already  imputed  to  them.  Still  Mrs.  Benson 
was  not  satisfied.  The  confidence  of  years  was  not  to  be 
destroyed,  even  by  such  a  disclosure  as  this.  But  what 
could  she  say  ?  Mrs.  Flint,  with  vehemence,  insisted  upon 
calling  up  the  girls,  setting  before  them  the  evidence  of 
their  shame,  and  compelling  them,  with  the  proof  before 
their  own  eyes,  to  confess  their  guilt. 

Bewildered  by  the  painful  circumstances  for  which  she 
was  utterly  unable  to  account,  and  hoping  that  they  would 
be  able  to  make  some  explanation  of  the  unpleasant  facts, 
Mrs.  Benson  consented  to  summon  them  to  the  chamber, 
and  to  hear  from  their  own  lips  such  explanation  as  they 
might  be  able  to  offer.  At  her  call  they  came  bounding 
into  the  room,  with  conscious  innocence  in  their  faces, 
and  wondering  at  the  occasion  of  being  called  at  such  an 
hour  to  meet  Mrs.  Benson  in  her  own  room.  She  held 
up  before  them  what  would  appear  to  be  indisputable  evi- 
dence that  they  had  been  seeking  to  rob  their  best  friend  ; 
and  with  trembling  voice  and  tearful  eyes  she  begged 


214  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

them  to  tell  her  by  what  means  these  evidences  of  their 
wrong  had' thus  been  secreted.  To  her  astonishment, 
they  both  received  her  inquiries  and  disclosures  with  a 
ringing  laugh.  This  could  mean  only. utter  unconscious- 
ness of  evil,  if  it  were  not  the  evidence  of  a  hardened  de- 
pravity inconsistent  with  their  previous  history. 

When  they  came,  however,  to  view  the  subject  in  a  more 
serious  light,  and  to  perceive  the  necessity  of  giving  some 
account  of  the  circumstances  in  which  they  were  involved, 
they  could  do  nothing  more  than  to  declare  their  utter  ig- 
norance of  the  way  and  the  manner  by  which  they  had  so 
suddenly  come  into  possession ;  and  looking  at  Mrs.  Flint, 
whose  eyes  fell  to  the  floor  when  they  attempted  to  catch 
her  attention,  they  united  in  the  declaration  that  some 
evil -disposed  person  must  have  secreted  the  articles 
among  their  things  for  the  purpose  of  fastening  upon  them 
the  suspicion  of  theft.  Mrs.  Flint  declared  that  no  one 
excepting  herself  and  Mrs.  Benson  had  been  in  the  house, 
or  had  any  access  whatever  to  their  apartments,  and  it 
was  quite  impossible  to  suppose  that  these  things  could 
be  found  there  without  hands ;  and  if  not  without  hands, 
whose  could  they  have  been,  unless  those  of  the  young  la- 
dies in  whose  possession  these  things  had  been  so  prov- 
identially discovered  ? 

"  But  how  came  they  to  be  discovered  ?"  demanded  the 
girls. 

This  was  a  question  for  which  Mrs.  Flint  was  unpre- 
pared ;  but  recovering  herself,  she  said  that  for  some 
time  past  her  suspicions  had  been  excited  by  having 
missed  various  articles,  which  she  had  never  mentioned 
to  Mrs.  Benson,  and  which  she  was  resolved  not  to  men- 
tion until  she  should  be  able  to  account  for  their  disap- 
pearance ;  that,  accordingly,  she  had  kept  her  eye  upon 


a  parson's  story.  215 

the  girls  since  they  came  into  the  house,  and  having  no- 
ticed one  of  them  that  morning  under  circumstances  that 
led  her  to  suspect  all  was  not  right,  she  had  taken  the 
liberty,  in  their  absence  from  the  room,  of  examining  the 
apartment — and  this  was  the  result. 

Roused  by  a  sense  of  the  great  injustice  which  had 
been  done  them,  yet  scarcely  able  to  believe  that  so  much 
malice  could  be  in  the  human  heart,  unable  to  imagine  a 
reason  that  could  prompt  any  human  being  to  devise  and 
execute  such  a  plan  of  mischief  against  them,  they,  never- 
theless, in  conscious  innocence,  united  in  charging  upon 
Mrs.  Flint,  with  courage  which  injured  virtue  always  sum- 
mons to  its  own  defense,  with  having  contrived  this  de- 
testable scheme  for  their  ruin;  and  throwing  themselves 
upon  the  mercy  and  upon  the  neck  of  Mrs.  Benson,  they 
begged  her,  for  the  sake  of  their  mother,  now  in  heaven, 
for  their  own  sakes — helpless  and  friendless  as  they  were 
in  the  world — not  to  believe  this  terrible  charge,  of  which 
they  declared  themselves  to  be  as  guiltless  as  the  spirit 
of  her  who  bore  them. 

Mrs.  Benson  believed  them.  With  all  the  confidence 
of  a  mother,  trusting  in  the  purity  of  daughters  whose  ev- 
ery word  and  action  she  had  known  and  loved  from  in- 
fancy, she  took  them  to  her  heart,  and  assured  them  that, 
however  dark  the  circumstances  might  appear,  however 
difficult  it  might  be  to  explain  them,  she  would  believe 
that  God  would  yet  make  it  plain,  and  that  whatever  oth- 
ers might  think,  she  for  one  would  cherish  no  suspicion. 

This  was  a  dark  chapter  in  the  history  of  the  orphans. 
Hitherto  misfortune  had  followed  fast  upon  the  heel  of 
misfortune.  The  "  clouds  had  returned  after  the  rain  ;" 
but  the  sorrows  which  they  had  experienced  had  been 
such  as  left  them  in  the  enjoyment  of  that  priceless  treas- 


2l6  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

ure — a  character  above  reproach  or  suspicion.  Now  the 
cloud  that  hung  over  them  was  darker  than  any  which 
had  ever  yet  obscured  their  path.  For  they  began  to  feel 
how  vain  would  be  all  their  own  efforts  to  stem  the  tide 
of  adversity,  unless  they  had  not  only  the  present  con- 
sciousness of  virtue,  but  the  sweet  assurance  of  the  re- 
spect and  confidence  to  which  it  would  entitle  them. 

It  was  a  cheerless  circle  that  surrounded  the  table  at 
Mrs.  Benson's  that  evening ;  few  words  were  spoken,  but 
every  heart  was  full  of  its  own  reflections  upon  the  events 
of  the  day,  and  their  probable  influence  upon  the  parties 
interested.  Mrs.  Benson's  mind  was  made  up  as  to  the 
course  it  was  her  duty  to  pursue  with  reference  to  the 
woman  who,  she  had  no  doubt,  was  the  evil  genius  in  her 
house,  and  to  whose  malignant  jealousy  of  the  orphans 
she  was  compelled  to  attribute  this  fiendish  attempt  at 
their  ruin.  Still  she  desired  so  to  manage  the  affair  as 
to  prevent  any  future  mischief  resulting  to  them  from  the 
tongue  of  Mrs.  Flint,  when  she  should  dispense  with  her 
services  in  the  house. 

In  the  retirement  of  their  chamber  the  sisters  wept  to- 
gether over  this  new  sorrow ;  they  sought  strength  from 
God,  to  whom  alone  they  had  learned  to  look  for  help  in 
extremities  ;  and  hour  after  hour,  as  they  lay  in  each  oth- 
er's arms,  they  sought  to  cheer  one  another  with  words 
that  did  not  speak  the  feelings  of  their  hearts ;  and  it 
was  not  until  long  after  midnight  that  disturbed  sleep 
gave  them  a  brief  and  imperfect  respite  from  the  grief 
now  thickening  around  and  upon  them.  It  was  impossi- 
ble to  escape  the  apprehension  that  Mrs.  Benson's  confi- 
dence in  their  integrity  had  been  shaken  ;  and  they  could 
not  but  feel  that,  were  she  lost  to  them,  all  on  earth  was 
lost ;  and  then,  so  often  had  they  already  been  compelled 


a  parson's  story.  217 

to  experience  the  failure  of  all  earthly  friendship,  they 
Would  seek  to  persuade  themselves  that,  even  in  the  last 
and  most  trying  circumstances  to  which  they  could  be 
subjected,  there  was  One  ever  above  and  near  them  to 
whom  they  might  flee  for  succor,  and  whose  promises, 
made  to  their  mother  in  her  dying  hour,  would  never  fail. 

A  few  days  afterward  Mrs.  Flint  left  the  house  of 
Mrs.  Benson,  going  to  her  married  daughter's  dwelling, 
which  she  made  her  home  for  the  future.  It  was 
not  long  before  the  sisters  found  that  her  tongue  was 
busy;  that  she  had  correctly  interpreted  the  reason  of 
her  dismissal ;  and  now,  more  than  she  ever  had  done, 
sought  to  work  their  destruction  for  the  sake  of  revenge. 
Whatever  might  have  been  the  deficiency  of  motive  in 
her  case  when  she  first  meditated  mischief,  she  had  now 
abundant  excitement  in  the  fact  that  the  failure  of  her 
scheme  had  wrought  her  own  injury.  Stung  by  the  mor- 
tification of  her  own  discharge,  she  sought  to  expend  the 
violence  and  bitterness  of  her  own  feelings  in  circulating, 
with  malicious  expedition,  the  story  which  would  serve 
at  once  the  double  purpose  of  injuring  the  orphans  and 
accounting  for  her  own  retirement  from  the  service  of 
Mrs.  Benson. 

The  girls  saw  the  effects  before  they  heard  the  cause. 
Friends  in  whose  doors  they  had  been  welcomed  now  re- 
ceived them  with  coldness.  Those  who  had  sought  their 
services  fell  away,  and  they  soon  found  themselves  en- 
tirely dependent  upon  their  truly  maternal  friend,  Mrs. 
Benson,  who  alone,  of  all  the  circle  in  which  they 
had  formerly  been  received,  stood  by  them.  So  wide- 
spread is  the  mischief  which  an  evil  report  occasions. 
It  was  in  vain  that  Mrs.  Benson  asserted  her  belief  in  the 
innocence  of  the  sisters.     The  community  took  the  side 


2l8  UNDER   THE    TREES. 

of  her  whom  they  believed  to  have  been  unjustly  accused, 
and  to  have  been  discharged  when  all  the  evidences  of 
wrong  were  against  the  parties  whom  Mrs.  Benson  had 
sheltered  with  what  they  believed  an  overweening  confi- 
dence. 

VI. 

So  strong  became  the  prejudice  against  these  unfortu- 
nate girls  that  their  employment  gradually  fell  off,  until 
it  became  evident  that  they  must  be  dependent  upon  Mrs. 
Benson  for  their  daily  bread,  or  must  seek  in  some  other 
place  a  more  favorable  opportunity  of  sustaining  them- 
selves. Their  friend  and  patron  kindly  assisted  them  in 
establishing  themselves  in  a  neighboring  village,  where  it 
was  believed  they  might  be  able  to  pursue  their  work,  and 
by  degrees  gain  the  confidence  of  the  community.  But 
with  a  vindictiveness  rarely  to  be  found  in  the  female 
sex,  and  painful  to  be  contemplated  wherever  observed, 
Mrs.  Flint  followed  them  to  their  new  home,  and  soon 
spread  widely,  where  they  were  now  seeking  to  estab- 
lish for  themselves  a  character,  the  report  that  they 
had  been  compelled  to  leave  their  native  village  under 
suspicions  of  dishonesty.  They  struggled  heroically 
against  this  new  dispensation  of  evil,  but  in  vain.  A  few 
weeks  had  scarcely  elapsed  before  it  became  evident  that 
they  would  be  utterly  unable  to  make  progress  in  this 
new  field,  and  that  the  few  friends  whom  they  had  made 
were  not  proof  against  the  insidious  effects  of  slander, 
which  was  now  undermining  them.  Indeed,  so  strong 
became  the  popular  feeling  of  indignation  against  them, 
as  suspicious  and  dangerous  young  women  who  had  come 
into  the  place  because  they  were  unable  to  live  in  anoth- 
er where  they  were  better  known,  that  the  house  in  which 
they  lodged  was  surrounded  by  a  mob,  and  demonstra- 


A    PARSONS    STORY.  2IQ 

tions  of  violence  were  made.  When  they  heard  the 
alarm  which  came  up  from  the  street,  and  were  told  that 
they  were  the  occasion  of  the  disturbance,  trembling  lest 
they  might  be  the  victims  of  personal  violence,  their  fright 
became  insupportable.  Mary,  the  less  excitable  of  the 
two,  sat  moody  and  speechless. 

"  They  are  coming  !"  she  exclaimed  at  last ;  "  they  are 
coming  for  us.  We  shall  be  driven  out ;  perhaps  we  shall 
be  killed.     What  shall  we  do  ?" 

Sarah,  more  excited,  but  always  more  hopeful,  strove  to 
allay  her  alarm,  beseeching  her  not  to  lose  her  trust  in 
God,  but  to  hope  for  the  best.  Through  the  help  of  the 
man  whose  house  they  were  dwelling  in,  Sarah  succeed- 
ed, after  a  while,  in  inducing  the  rioters  in  the  street  to 
retire,  after  having  given  them  the  assurance  that  they 
would  on  the  next  day  return  to  the  village  from  which 
they  had  come. 

But  they  had  to  be  taken  there.  And  it  was  a  month 
before  that  could  be  done.  The  fearful  presentiment  of 
some  greater  sorrow — the  great  black  cloud — was  made 
real — Mary  wras  laid  upon  a  bed  of  suffering  with  a  brain 
fever,  and  Sarah  was  by  turns  a  gentle  and  then  a  raving 
maniac.     God  help  the  orphans. 

VII. 

A  year  in  their  native  village  passes  by. 

They  are  now  hopelessly  deranged.  Wandering  in 
the  streets,  singing  loose  and  ribald  songs — a  source  of 
intensest  grief  to  all  those  who  had  known  them  in  the 
loveliness  of  their  childhood  and  youth — they  were  ob- 
jects also  of  the  tenderest  compassion ;  and  had  there 
been  at  this  time  any  provision  for  the  care  and  cure  of 
the  insane,  doubtless  they  would  have  found  a  refuge  in 


220  UNDER   THE    TREES. 

some  such  asylum.  Human  skill  had  not  yet  contrived 
such  institutions,  and  the  insane  were  only  prevented 
from  doing  injury  to  Others  by  being  confined  among 
the  most  miserable  and  degraded  of  the  public  poor.  As 
the  girls  manifested  no  disposition  to  do  violence  to  oth- 
ers, and  were  cheerful  rather  than  gloomy  in  their  mad- 
ness, they  were  suffered  to  go  at  large ;  and'  many  sought 
by  kindness  to  win  them  back  again  to  a  state  of  quiet- 
ness and  peace.  Often,  when  led  by  the  hand  of  friend- 
ship into  the  houses  of  those  who  wou\d  care  for  them, 
they  were  known  to  leap  from  the  window  into  the  street, 
as  if  apprehensive  of  being  confined. 

As  yet  they  were  never,  even  in  their  worst  state,  in- 
sensible to  the  voice  of  love.  My  own  house  was  freely 
opened  to  them  as  a  home,  where  I  sought,  by  all  the  as- 
siduity which  my  affection  for  their  parents  could  sug- 
gest, to  administer  the  balm  of  comfort,  if  I  could  not 
furnish  the  balm  of  healing,  to  their  wounded  minds. 

One  instance  occurs  to  me  of  peculiar  interest.  They 
were  invited,  as  not  unfrequently  they  had  been  before, 
to  spend  a  social  evening  with  some  of  the  young  people 
of  the  village  ;  and  in  the  midst  of  the  lively  associations 
of  the  evening,  their  spirits  seemed  to  revive.  Something 
of  their  former  gentleness  and  loveliness  began  to  return. 
Yet  now,  so  far  had  the  work  of  ruin  gone  on  in  the  minds 
of  these  young  girls,  that  they  not  only  had  forgotten 
many  of  their  early  friends  and  associates,  but,  strange  to 
say,  they  had  forgotten  the  relationship  between  them- 
selves. They  knew  each  other  only  as  companions.  At 
the  close  of  the  evening  they  were  invited  to  spend  the 
night  at  the  house  where  the  entertainment  had  been 
given  ;  and  after  retiring  to  bed,  and  lying  in  each  other's 
arms,  soothed  by  the  pleasures  which  they  had  been  en- 


A    PARSON'S    STORY.  221 

joying,  and  the  circumstances  of  comfort  by  which  they 
found  themselves  surrounded,  a  calm  serenity  of  mind 
stole  over,  them,  fond  memory  came  back  with  all  its 
sweet  influences,  and  gradually  the  truth  broke  in  upon 
their  souls  that  they  were  sisters.  In  mutual  recogni- 
tion, and  in  the  fullness  of  that  affection  which  had  been 
uninterrupted  from  infancy,  they  spent  the  most  of  the 
night  in  delightful  union  of  spirit,  forgetful,  of  course,  of 
all  that  had  occurred  in  the  hours  and  months  of  their 
delirium ;  yet  remembering  that  some  great  sorrow  had 
once  shed  its  gloom  over  their  minds,  and  that  they  were 
now  in  the  midst  of  friends  and  pleasures  which  it  was 
their  privilege  to  enjoy.  They  arose  in  the  morning  re- 
freshed by  a  night,  not  of  sleep,  but  of  sweet  peace. 
Alas !  it  was  but  for  a  night.  Before  the  day  was  gone 
the  cloud  gathered  over  them  once  more ;  delirium  seized 
them ;  they  rushed  forth  from  the  house  of  their  protect- 
or and  friend,  and  again  in  the  streets  of  the  village  re- 
newed their  wild  mirth,  piercing  the  ears  and  the  hearts 
of  those  who  heard  them. 

VIII. 

It  was  now  late  in  the  summer.  Mrs.  Flint  had  been 
for  some  weeks  confined  to  her  bed  with  a  wasting  fever. 
I  was  sent  for  to  see  her,  and  was  out  in  the  country  vis- 
iting a  parishioner  some  miles  from  my  home.  I  had  seen 
her  several  times  during  her  sickness,  and  was  well  con- 
vinced that  her  disease  would  have  a  fatal  termination. 
As  soon  as  I  returned  home  and  learned  that  I  had  been 
sent  for,  I  hastened  to  the  cottage  \  as  I  entered,  a  scene 
of  strange  and  thrilling  interest  was  before  my  eyes.  The 
woman  was  dying,  and  kneeling  at  her  bedside  were 
these  two  wild  girls. 


22  2  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

I  soon  learned  the  facts  that  had  brought  them  there 
under  such  strange  and  exciting  circumstances.  They 
had  been  wandering,  as  usual,  through  the  streets ;  and 
when  the  sound  of  their  mirth  broke  in  upon  the  hearing 
of  the  dying  woman,  she  inquired  what  it  was.  Being 
told  that  Sarah  and  Mary  Bell  were  carrying  on  as  they 
were  accustomed  to,  she  started  at  the  mention  of  their 
names,  and  begged  that  they  might  be  called  in.  They 
came  at  the  call,  and  without  hesitation  approached  the 
bed  on  which  their  enemy  and  destroyer  was  now  stretch- 
ed, in  hourly  expectation  of  death. 

"  I  did  it !"  said  Mrs.  Flint ;  "  it  is  all  my  work  ;  and 
here,  as  I  am  now  about  to  leave  this  world  and  go  into 
the  presence  of  God,  I  would  not  go  without  clearing 
these  girls  of  that  great  sin  which  I  laid  to  their  charge, 
but  which  God  knows  they  are  as  innocent  of  as  the  an- 
gels in  his  presence.  I  did  it — I  did  it ;  it  was  all  my 
work." 

The  girls  were  evidently  affected  deeply  by  the  sight 
before  them,  and  by  the  tones  of  her  voice;'  and  as  she 
repeated  again  and  again  her  asseverations  of  their  inno- 
cence and  her  own  guilt,  they  began  to  comprehend  the 
nature  of  the  scene  that  was  transpiring.  It  pleased  God 
to  give  them  just  at  this  hour,  and  doubtless  through  the 
influence  of  the  communication  which  they  were  receiv- 
ing, at  least  a  temporary  deliverance  from  the  darkness 
and  delirium  in  which  they  had  so  long  been  lost.  He 
restored  peace  and  a  measure  of  strength  to  their  minds, 
enabling  them  to  receive  and  to  understand  the  blessed 
truth  that  evidence  was  coming,  though  from  the  verge 
of  the  grave,  to  deliver  them  from  the  wrongs  they 
had  suffered.  They  took  her  extended  hands  in  their 
own  ;  they  knelt  upon  the  floor  by  her  side  ;  they  as- 


A    PARSON  S    STORY.  223 

sured  her,  even  in  their  wretchedness  and  their  ruin, 
that  they  would  forgive  her  ;  and  they  prayed  Heaven 
to  grant  her  forgiveness  ere  her  soul  should  take  its 
departure. 

It  was  at  this  juncture  that  I  entered  the  room.  The 
moment  Mrs.  Flint  caught  my  eye  she  renewed  her  prot- 
estations of  the  innocence  of  the  girls,  told  me  how  for 
years  she  had  carried  the  pangs  of  remorse  in  her  own 
breast,  how  often  she  had  desired  to  do  them  justice,  and 
to  seek  peace  for  her  own  conscience ;  but  her  selfish- 
ness and  her  pride  had  always  overcome  her  better  reso- 
lutions, and  she  had  witnessed  month  after  month  the 
dreadful  fruits  of  her  sin,  and  feared  continually  that  the 
judgments  of  God  would  overtake  her.  Here,  on  her 
sick-bed,  and  in  view  of  death,  when  no  other  considera- 
tions than  those  which  attended  preparation  for  the  grand 
event  which  was  just  before  her  were  allowed  to  have  any 
power  upon  her  mind,  she  had  been  driven  to  this  last 
and  dying  confession,  which,  while  it  would  relieve  her 
own  mind  of  the  burden  under  which  she  was  sinking, 
would  restore  to  those  unhappy  girls  the  priceless  treasure 
of  a  character  which  they  had  lost ;  though  she  believed, 
as  I  did,  that  it  was  too  late  to  hope  that  the  restoration 
of  their  character  would  bring  them  back  the  treasure  of 
reason,  which  there  was  too  much  cause  to  fear  was  irre- 
trievably lost. 

What  could  I  add  to  this  revelation,  than  which  noth- 
ing could  be  more  solemn  and  affecting?  Here  were  all 
the  accessaries  of  a  sublime  yet  painful  drama.  Tl;e 
dying  woman,  with  her  sharp,  haggard  features,  her  pierc- 
ing, agonized  eyes,  looking  now  at  the  girls,  and  now  up- 
ward as  if  she  would  look  into  the  other  world,  striving 
to  read  the  destiny  upon  which  she  was  about  to  enter, 


224  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

now  turning  to  me  with  imploring  glance,  and  asking  me 
to  direct  her,  even  in  her -extremity,  to  some  way  by  which 
she  might  find  forgiveness  and  peace,  now  seeking  to  re- 
assure the  helpless  daughters  of  sorrow  yet  kneeling  be- 
fore her  that  God  would  be  their  father  and  their  portion, 
saying  that  she  could  die  with  contentment  if  she  could 
believe  that  her  death  would  be  the  means  of  giving  back 
to  them  the  life  which  they  had  lost. 

In  vain  was  it  for  me  to  offer  a  word  of  consolation. 
Indeed,  there  was  none  to  be  spoken.  I  directed  her,  as 
I  would  any  lost  sinner  in  the  hour  of  calamity,  to  the 
only  refuge,  and  besought  her  to  seek  in  the  Saviour  the 
only  source  of  peace. 

When  the  girls  arose  from  their  knees,  and  were  about 
to  leave  the  house,  she  begged  them  to  remain,  and  even 
required  from  them  a  promise  that  they  would  not  leave 
her  while  she  lived.  With  gentle  kindness  they  began  to 
perform  the  part  of  nurses  around  the  sick-bed,  and  with 
unaccustomed  ministries  they  soothed  her  sufferings,  and 
gradually  seemed  to  bring  her  to  the  enjoyment  of  some- 
thing like  peace  of  mind.  But  this  was  temporary.  Soon 
the  paroxysms  of  anguish  came  back  with  redoubled  force, 
and  in  words  too  strong  to  be  repeated,  and  such  only  as 
dying  pains  extort  from  consciences  ill  at  ease  anticipat- 
ing greater  anguish  near  at  hand  ;  fearful  of  the  present, 
and  more  fearful  still  of  that  which  is  to  come,  she  cried 
again  and  again,  "  It  was  I  that  did  it — it  was  I  that  did 
it ;  it  was  all  my  work."    And  so  she  died. 

IX. 

I  took  the  girls  home  with  me,  and  embraced  this  pres- 
ent lucid  interval  to  make  an  earnest  experiment,  in  the 
faint  hope  of  securing  their  permanent  restoration.     Noth- 


a  parson's  story.  225 

ing  had  occurred  since  their  derangement  which  afforded 
such  good  ground  to  believe  that  there  might  be  a  basis 
laid  for  a  permanent  cure.  They  could  be  assured  that 
all  suspicions  formerly  resting  upon  their  character  were 
now  removed,  and  they  would  enjoy  the  universal  confi- 
dence and  love  of  those  who  had  been  their  friends,  and 
their  mother's  friends,  in  the  days  of  their  prosperity  and 
joy.  I  told  them  that  my  house  was  to  be  their  home ; 
I  gave  them  their  chamber ;  I  gave  them  such  light  work 
as  would  occupy  their  minds,  and  in  the  cultivation  of 
flowers  in  the  garden,  in  the  pursuit  of  such  studies  as 
they  were  always  fond  of,  and  in  the  society  of  kind  and 
genial  friends,  I  sought  to  surround  them  with  those 
pleasant  influences  which  would  cheer  and  console,  and 
gently  aid  in  their  perfect  recovery. 

Among  the  many  friends  who  were  in  the  habit  of  vis- 
iting at  my  house  from  the  city  of  New  York  was  a  mer- 
chant of  large  means  and  extensive  business.  His  wife 
had  died  a  year  after  their  marriage,  and  he  had  led  a 
single  life  for  five  or  six  years.  It  was  not  among  the  re- 
motest of  my  suspicions  that  he  should  think  of  finding  a 
second  wife  in  my  house,  and  in  one  of  these  unfortunate 
yet  lovely  young  ladies. 

But  there  is  no  accounting  for  tastes  or  sympathies. 
Mr.  Whitfield  was  a  man  long  accustomed  to  think  for 
himself,  and  not  given  to  asking  the  opinions  of  others 
till  after  his  own  mind  was  made  up.  Then  it  was  too 
late  to  shake  his  resolution,  whatever  the  force  of  the  mo- 
tives urged  against  it.  He  knew  the  story  of  the  Bells, 
and  that  story  had  first  awakened  his  sympathy,  his  pity, 
and  prepared  the  way  for  love.  When  he  broached  the 
subject  to  me,  I  begged  him  to  dismiss  it  at  once  and  for- 
ever from  his  mind.     But  he  respectfully  declined,  telling 

P 


226  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

me  he  had  counted  the  cost,  and  was  prepared  for  the 
risks. 

Although  there  had  been  great  improvement  in  the 
health  and  appearance  of  both  Sarah  and  Mary  since  the 
death  of  Mrs.  Flint,  they  were  still  liable  to  returns  of  the 
fearful  malady;  and  Mr. Whitfield  had  his  resolution  put 
to  the  severest  test  as  soon  as  he  ventured  upon  the  ex- 
periment of  making  known  his  intentions  to  Sarah,  the 
object  of  his  choice.  He  had  invited  her  to  ride  with 
him.  They  drove  out  of  the  village,  passing  the  door  of 
the  house  in  which  Mrs.  Flint  had  died.  Sarah  had  never 
entered  it  since  that  terrible  hour  when  she  and  her  poor 
sister  closed  the  eyes  of  the  wretched  woman.  The 
memories  of  that  scene,  and  of  all  they  had  passed  through 
in  the  years  of  their  former  struggles  and  trials,  came 
rushing  upon  her  mind,  and  she  began  to  talk  wildly,  and 
then  madly ;  and  soon  she  became  frantic,  and  strove  to 
leap  from  the  carriage,  and  would  have  done  so  but  for 
the  main  force  of  her  friend  and  companion,  who  trembled 
at  the  brink  on  which  he  was  standing. 

Still  he  was  not  disheartened.  He  hastened  back  with 
his  charge  to  my  house,  and  told  me  of  the  excitement 
into  which  Sarah  had  been  thrown,  and  the  danger  from 
which  she  had  been  rescued.  He  was  deeply  affected. 
He  was  in  trouble.  "  And  yet,"  said  he,  "  in  spite  of  all 
this,  I  believe  that  if  she  were  once  more  in  a  home  of 
her  own,  and  surrounded  with  the  duties  and  pleasures 
of  the  household,  her  mind  would  become  settled,  and 
she  would  be  restored  to  the  enjoyment  of  health  and 
reason." 

I  assured  him  that,  next  to  my  own  children,  I  desired 
their  happiness  before  all  others,  but  I  could  not  advise 
him  to  take  a  step  which  might  make  him  miserable, 


A   PARSON  S   STORY.  227 

without  adding  to  the  enjoyment  of  her  who  could  not  be 
a  wife  such  as  he  desired  unless  God. should  give  her 
back  the  permanent  possession  of  her  once  cultivated 
and  now  disordered  mind. 

He  returned  in  a  week  or  two,  with  his  purpose  un- 
changed. He  asked  Sarah  again  to  ride  wij:h  him  ;  and 
this  time  she  seemed  to  enjoy  the  world  around  her,  and 
to  enter  into  the  spirit  of  nature  as  its  beauties  met  her 
eyes.  The  birds  were  happy,  and  she  spoke  of  their  glad- 
ness as  she  saw  and  heard  them.  The  fields  seemed  to 
clap  their  hands.  Sarah  was  joyful  in  the  midst  of  a 
world  of  joy.  They  rode  to  Passaic  Falls,  at  Paterson, 
in  the  State  of  New  Jersey.  The  deep  roar  of  the  waters 
as  they  approached  was  a  solemn  music  that  subdued 
and  stilled  her  soul.  They  walked  out  upon  the  wide,  flat 
rocks  through  which  the  river  makes  its  broken  plunge, 
and,  instead  of  being  terrified,  she  gloried  in  the  excite- 
ment of  the  scene.  She  spoke  of  the  spray  as  a  cloud 
of  incense  rising  from  those  eternal  altars,  and  ever  prais- 
ing Him  who  sits  in  the  heavens,  and  listens  to  the  music 
of  all  his  works.  They  came  to  the  edge  of  the  precipice, 
and  Mr.  Whitfield  pointed  out  to  her  the  very  spot  where, 
a  few  months  previously,  a  bride  had  fallen  from  the  side 
of  her  husband,  and  had  been  dashed  to  pieces  on  the 
rocks  below.  She  looked  down  with  steady  nerves,  and 
said  that  it  was  a  fearful  fall,  and  more  fearful  to  him  who 
remained  when  his  bride  was  gone. 

He  led  her  cautiously  and  by  a  winding  path  to  the 
bottom  of  the  ravine,  whence  they  could  look  up  to  the 
brow  of  the  black  jagged  rocks,  from  which  the  white  wa- 
ters were  tumbling  through  the  green  fringes  of  stunted 
trees  and  bushes  that  clung  to  the  sides  of  the  clefts. 

And  here,  in  the  roar  of  the  fall,  as  she  was  rejoicing 


228  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

in  the  wonderful  beauty  of  the  scenes  around  her,  he  be- 
gan his  declaration. 

"  You  are  not  serious,  surely,"  she  cried,  in  mingled  fear 
and  surprise,  as  he  intimated  that  he  desired  her  love, 
and  would  be  only  too  happy  to  give  her  his  fortune  and 
his  hand.  "You  do  not  know  my  story,  or  you  could  not 
dream  of  such  a  proposal." 

"  I  know  it  all ;  it  was  that  story  which  first  led  me  to 
think  of  devoting  my  life  to  yours ;  and  if  you  will  cast 
in  your  lot  with  me,  you  shall  find  that  I  will  be  parent, 
brother,  husband,  all  in  one." 

"  It  is  altogether  out  of  the  question,"  she  returned. 
"  I  do  not  love  you ;  I  do  not  know  that  I  could  love. 
This  thought  of  love  is  one  that  I  have  not  known  since 
those  happy  days  before  the  clouds  came.  You  did  not 
know  that  I  ever  loved  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  have  heard  that  one  all  unworthy  of  you  once 
sought  you,  and  that  he  fled  when  the  day  of  your  adver- 
sity came.  I  would  come  to  you  in  the  midst  of  your 
sorrow,  and  win  you  to  a  home  of  peace  and  joy.  I  have 
the  means  of  surrounding  you  with  all  that  you  can  de- 
sire, and  my  life  shall  be  spent  in  making  yours  as  happy 
as  you  ever  dreamed  of  being." 

"But  you  have  not  counted  the  cost;  you  know  not 
what  you  are  proposing ;  I  am  a  poor,  weak  thing ;  and 
I  have  even  been  told  that  my  sister  and  I  are  sometimes 
deranged/  I  do  not  know  what  it  is,  or  why  it  is,  but  I 
have  strange,  dreadful  thoughts  sometimes  ;  and  these 
have  been  more  frequent  and  more  terrible  since  the  time 
when  Mary  and  I  were  accused  of  a  crime  of  which  we 
were  altogether  innocent.  You  will  not  be  so  rash  as  to 
think  of  taking  such  a  wild,  thoughtless  woman  as  I  am 
to  your  home,  even  if  I  could  assure  you  that  the  affec- 


A    PARSON  S    STORY.  229 

tion  you  promise  could  be  returned  in  all  its  sincerity 
and  strength." 

Still  he  pressed  his  suit.  In  the  honesty  of  his  heart 
he  felt  he  had  now  committed  himself,  and  even  if  he  had 
been  staggered  in  his  purpose  by  the  serious  objections 
she  had  so  rationally  raised,  and  urged  with  so  much 
earnestness,  he  was  bound  to  go  forward.  And  never 
did  the  girl  appear  to  him  more  lovely  than  when,  with 
such  delicate  appreciation  of  his  motives,  and  tempted  as 
she  must  be  by  his  proposals,  she  still  resisted  his  ap- 
peals, and  left  him  an  open  door  to  retreat.  He  renewed 
his  entreaties. 

"  But  there  is  my  sister  Mary,  who  was  with  me  in  our 
childhood,  the  companion  of  all  my  sorrows — I  will  never, 
never  leave  her." 

"  And  you  shall  not  leave  her.  She  will  go  with  us  to 
our  own  home,  and  be  my  sister  as  well  as  yours.  Instead 
of  losing  a  sister,  she  will  find  a  brother." 

Sarah  was  deeply  affected.  It  seemed  to  her  that  God 
was  in  this  thing,  and  that  the  dark  clouds  which  had  so 
long  hung  over  her  were  now  clearing  away,  and  a  new 
light  was  breaking  upon  her  path.  Yet  she  could  not 
yield  to  the  offers  so  pressed  upon  her  till  she  had  con- 
sulted her  friends,  and  she  finally  promised  to  be  governed 
by  my  advice  in  the  matter.  She  .was  calm  and  cheerful 
as  they  came  home  together  that  evening.  I  should  not 
have  suspected  that  any  thing  unusual  had  passed  between 
them.  But  after  the  sisters  had  retired  for  the  night,  and 
I  was  left  alone  with  Mr.  Whitfield,  he  told  me  of  the 
events  of  the  day,  and  begged  me  to  aid  him  in  procuring 
Sarah's  consent  to  their  union.  He  knew  well  that  I  had 
already  advised  him  against  the  proposal;  but  now  he 
was  more  than  ever  infatuated  with  the  conviction  that 


230  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

the  restoration  of  the  sisters  to  the  calm  pleasures  of  a 
home  they  might  call  their  own  would  be  the  means  of 
getting  them  health  and  peace.  To  all  prudential  consid- 
erations he  turned  a  deaf  ear ;  and  I  was  obliged  to  tell 
him  that  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  object,  if  he  were 
willing  to  take  the  responsibility  upon  himself. 

With  a  new  and  an  admiring  sense  of  the  ways  of  divine 
Providence,  I  looked  upon  the  change  that  was  about  to 
take  place  in  the  situation  of  these  poor  sisters,  and  said 
to  myself  seriously,  as  I  thought  over  the  ways  by  which 
they  had  been  led,  is  there,  indeed,  any  thing  too  hard  for 
the  Lord  ?  Who  would  have  believed  that  such  a  door 
of  deliverance  from  poverty  and  suffering  would  be  open- 
ed ?  Who  would  have  thought  that  one  of  these  orphans, 
a  few  months  ago  wandering  in  the  streets,  and  raving  in 
the  wildness  of  delirium,  would  now  be  sought  after  by  a 
man  of  character  and  wealth,  laying  his  fortune  at  her  feet, 
and  offering  to  share  his  home  with  her  sister,  so  that  both 
should  be  equally  the  recipients  of  blessings  which  Heaven 
is  so  kindly  bestowing?  Here  was  the  promise  of  God 
most  strikingly  fulfilled  :  "  Leave  thy  fatherless  children 
— I  will  keep  them  alive  •"  "  When  my  father  and  my 
mother  forsake  me,  then  the  Lord  will  take  me  up." 
There  had  been  many  long  and  painful  years,  when  it 
might  be  feared  that  these  promises  had  been  forgotten. 
So  deep  had  been  the  extremity  of  their  destitution,  and 
so  hopeless  their  condition,  I  had  looked  forward  to  their 
death  as  the  first  release  they  could  have  from  sorrow. 
Such  a  termination  was  far  more  probable  than  that  one 
of  them  should  win  the  love  of  a  noble-hearted  man  who 
would  take  her  to  himself,  and  surround  her  with  the 
sweets  of  social  and  domestic  life.  But  if  all  this  is,  in- 
deed, in  store  for  these  orphan  sisters,  far  be  it  from  me 


a  parson's  story.  231 

to  say  a  word,  except  to  pray  God  to  bless  thgm  both,  and 
give  them  a  respite  from  the  miseries  which  have  so  long 
been  their  portion. 

During  the  interval  of  three  months  that  followed  this 
eventful  day  there  was  a  daily  and  marked  improvement 
in  the  sisters.  The  vivacity  of  childhood,  without  the  lev- 
ity of  their  wandering  years,  returned :  they  were  them- 
selves again.  And  when  Sarah  at  length  gave  her  con- 
sent, and  stood  up  before  me  to  be  joined  in  marriage  to 
the  man  who  had  thus  nobly  called  her  to  be  his  own,  I 
said  to  him,  "  I  give  you  Sarah  to  be  your  wife,  and  Mary 
to  be  your  sister."  And  he  replied,  "  I  will  be  faithful  to 
both  until  death  shall  separate  us." 

If  any  part  of  this  narrative  has  had  the  appearance  of 
romance,  much  more  like  it  is  that  which  is  now  to  be 
recorded.  But  if  I  have  not  already  given  the  assurance, 
it  may  be  well  to  say  here  that  I  am  following  out  the 
events  of  real  life,  and  there  are  many  now  living  who 
will  read  and  attest,  if  needful,  the  truth  of  these  strange 
facts. 

Among  the  guests  at  the  marriage  of  Sarah  was  a 
younger  brother  of  her  husband,  his  partner  in  business, 
and  with  the  same  bright  prospects.  He  stood  up  by 
the  side  of  his  brother,  and  Sarah  was  supported  by  her 
sister.  In  less  than  a  month  from  that  time  the  order 
was  changed,  and  the  young  Whitfield  and  Mary  stood 
side  by  side,  and  plighted  their  vows  in  the  presence  of 
God,  and  surrounded  by  a  glad  and  admiring  circle  of 
friends,  who  could  not  conceal  their  grateful  recognition 
of  a  merciful  providence, in  the  marriage  of  these  two  sis- 
ters under  circumstances  of  such  extraordinary  interest. 

A  short  time  afterward  I  saw  them  settled  in  their  new 
homes.     They  lived  in   adjoining  houses  in  one  of  the 


232  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

pleasantest  streets  of  the  city,  then  quite  down  town, 
where  now  the  march  of  business  has  driven  out  the  old 
settlers,  desecrated  the  firesides  hallowed  by  a  thousand 
sacred  associations,  and  converted  the  sanctuary  of  love 
into  temples  of  Mammon. 

X. 

And  here  I  would  be  willing  to  close  this  record,  and 
leave  my  young  friends  in  the  bliss  with  which  at  length 
their  lives  are  crowned. 

"  It  is  wonderful,"  Sarah  said  to  me  as  I  called  to  see 
her  in  her  beautiful  mansion.  "It  is  wonderful.  How 
strangely  God  has  led  us ;  and  now  we  are  as  happy  as  we 
have  ever  been  miserable  in  the  years  that  are  past.  Do 
you  believe  that  my  dear  mother  knows  what  we  have 
passed  through,  and  what  we  are  enjoying  now?" 

I  told  her  I  had  often  indulged  the  idea  that  the  spir- 
its of  the  departed  were  conversant  with  our  spirits — that 
they  are  indeed  ministering  spirits  to  those  whom  they 
loved  while  in  the  flesh,  and  it  was  not  impossible  that 
her  mother  had  followed  her  in  all  her  eventful  and  mys- 
terious history.  Even  now  she  may  be  near  and  rejoic- 
ing that  peace  and  joy  had  at  last  visited  the  hearts  of 
her  daughters,  and  out  of  great  tribulation  they  were  al- 
ready brought  to  happiness  they  had  never  dreamed  of. 

It  was  a  short  year  after  Mary's  marriage  when  the 
birth  of  a  child  promised  to  fill  the  cup  of  her  thanks- 
giving. Others  rejoiced,  and  yet  she  did  not  seem  to  be 
happy  in  the  prospect,  nor  when  it  was  laid  in  her  arms 
did  she  give  it  more  than  a  melancholy  smile  of  satisfac- 
tion. Instead  of  fondling  it  with  the  yearning  tenderness 
of  a  young  mother,  she  looked  on  it  calmly,  but  with  a 
fixedness  of  interest  that  was  more  full  of  anxiety  than 


a  parson's  story.  233 

affection.  Days  and  weeks  went  by  and  this  moodiness 
increased.  She  was  able  now  to  sit  up,  and  when  the 
infant  was  lying  on  her  knees  or  in  the  cradle  by  her  side, 
she  would  sit  by  the  hour  and  watch  it  steadily,  without  a 
word,  but  often  sighing  as  if  some  great  sorrow  was  in 
the  future  of  her  child's  history,  into  which  she  was  look- 
ing. Slowly  but  steadily,  and  in  the  lapse  of  weeks  and 
months,  she  sank  into  melancholy  gloom.  No  art  of 
medicine,  no  kind  devotion  of  a  faithful  husband,  no 
sweet  ministries  of  a  large  and  loving  circle  of  friends 
could  raise  her  up,  or  dispel  the  cloud  that  gathered  over 
her  spirit.  The  child  was  removed  from  her  sight,  but  it 
was  all  the  same  to  her.  She  never  asked  for  it,  seemed 
never  to  think  of  it  unless  it  were  in  her  sight.  Foreign 
travel  was  proposed,  and  Mr.  Whitfield  earnestly  strove 
to  prevail  on  her  to  go  with  him  abroad.  But  to  all 
such  invitations  she  was  indifferent.  She  must  have 
been  carried  by  force,  or  she  would  never  have  been 
taken  from  the  room  where  in  profound  reverie  she  sat 
day  after  day,  without  interest  in  the  world  around  her, 
or  even  in  those  nearest  to  her  fireside. 

Sarah  was  not  careless  for  her  sister's  state,  but  alas, 
by  that  strange  fatality  which  had  hitherto  followed  them 
both,  making  them  one  in  suffering  as  they  were  also  one 
in  the  few  joys  that  were  theirs  in  life,  she  too  began  to 
show  signs  of  returning  madness.  What  was  the  secret 
principle  thus  linking  their  destinies  ?  In  childhood 
they  had  been  as  one  in  love  and  innocence.  In  youth 
they  had  been  crushed,  together  and  by  the  same  blow. 
In  womanhood  they  had  both  found  loving  hearts,  fra- 
ternal hearts,  that  gave  them  a  shelter,  a  home,  and  all 
the  sympathies  of  a  noble  conjugal  affection.  And  now, 
when  the  great  struggle  of  life  was  past,  and  they  were  in 


034  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

the  midst  of  joys  that  even  in  the  dreams  of  childhood  they 
had  never  thought  of,  the  darkness  is  coming  on  again, 
and  other  hearts  besides  their  own  are  to  be  shrouded  in 
the  approaching  gloom. 

Mary's  child  died  in  its  first  year.  Mary  did  not  shed 
a  tear.  It  was  no  more  to  her  than  the  child  of  a 
stranger.  She  was  now  silent  and  sullen.  She  never 
complained,  but  it  was  gradually  apparent  that  disease 
was  making  progress.  She  took  to  her  bed,  and  a  slow 
fever  wore  out  her  life.  She  died  three  months  after  her 
child,  and  less  than  two  years  after  her  marriage. 

Sarah's  malady  had  a  widely  different  development. 
Naturally  more  excitable  than  her  sister,  she  had  in 
former  days  been  more  wild  and  gay  in  the  seasons  of 
their  derangement.  Now  she  was  wilder  than  ever. 
She  became  uncontrollable  by  the  friends  who  surround- 
ed her.  There  was  no  asylum  into  which  she  could  be 
placed :  the  insane  at  that  .time  were  confined  only 
among  paupers  or  criminals,  or  in  hospitals  under  cir- 
cumstances the  most  unfavorable  to  their  recovery.  Her 
faithful  husband,  as  tender  in  his  affection  and  devoted 
as  when  he  first  won  her,  sought  to  restrain  her  by  gen- 
tle assiduity,  striving  to  conceal  from  others,  when  he 
could  no  longer  hide  from  his  own  mind,  the  terrible 
fact  that  she  was  mad.  But  her  madness  wore  a  humor- 
ous rather  than  a  mischievous  type  for  some  months. 
She  would  enter  the  parlor  while  he  was  on  his  knees 
conducting  the  devotions  of  the  household,  and  leap  on 
his  back  as  if  in  the  exuberance  of  childish  spirits,  and 
frolic  there,  laughing  while  his  heart  was  breaking.  They 
put  a  strait-waistcoat  upon  her,  but  she  would  contrive  to 
get  it  off  and  throw  it  through  the  window,  and  threaten 
to  leap  out  herself  if  it  were  ever  put  on  her  again. 


a  parson's  story.  235 

The  hospital  in  Broadway  at  the  head  of  Pearl  Street 
was  then  new,  and  after  long  hesitation,  and  acting  un- 
der the  advice  of  the  best  physicians,  Mr.  Whitfield  was 
at  last  prevailed  upon  to  consent  to  her  removal  there. 
He  obtained  the  most  desirable  apartment,  on  the  south- 
east corner,  in  one  of  the  upper  stories;  and  having 
furnished  it  with  every  appliance  for  her  safety  and 
comfort,  he  consigned  her  to  the  medical  men  of  that 
institution  when  it  was  no  longer  possible  for  him  to 
keep  her  in  any  comfort  at  home.  But  he  could  not  rest 
in  his  own*  mansion  while  the  wife  of  his  bosom,  whom 
he  so  tenderly  loved,  was  in  a  public  hospital,  alone  and 
crazed.  Night  after  night  he  walked  the  street  in  front 
of  the  building  in  which  she  was  confined,  looking  up  at 
the  window  in  her  narrow  chamber,  sometimes  fancying 
that  he  saw  her  struggling  to  force  her  way  through,  and 
expecting  to  see  her  plunging  headlong  from  that  fearful 
height.  By  degrees  her  strength  gave  way ;  and  when 
she  was  no  longer  able  to  be  violent  in  her  paroxysms  of 
madness,  he  had  the  melancholy  satisfaction  of  again 
taking  her  to  his  own  house.  Directly  over  his  own 
bed-chamber  he  had  an  apartment  prepared  for  her,  and 
thither  she  was  conveyed,  and  watched  by  suitable  at- 
tendants. When  by  the  silence  of  her  chamber  he  knew 
that  she  was  asleep,  he  would  often  steal  up  from  his  own 
room,  and  sitting  down  in  a  large  easy  chair  near  the 
bed,  he  would  look  upon  the  wreck  of  his  lovely  bride, 
weeping  over  the  change,  and  praying  that  even  now,  in 
her  hopeless  and  helpless  state,  the  power  of  God  might 
be  revealed  for  relief  and  restoration.  The  first  sweet 
year  of  their  union  would  then  come  to  his  memory, 
when  something  whispered  to  him  of  his  rashness  in 
linking  himself  to  one  whose  mind  was  shattered,  what- 


236  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

ever  might  be  her  virtues  and  her  charms  •  and  he 
thanked  God  that  it  had  been  his  privilege,  even  for 
that  brief  period,  to  make  her  a  home,  and  fill  her  heart 
with  peace  and  joy. 

One  night  he  was  sitting  there,  and  musing,  perhaps 
somewhat  encouraged  by  having  been  told  that  through 
the  day  she  had  been  calmer,  and  at  intervals  apparently 
rational.  Now  she  was  sleeping,  more  sweetly  than  he 
had  known  her  in  many  months.  And  as  he  leaned  his 
head  back  in  the  chair,  wearied  with  long  and  anxious 
waking,  he  fell  asleep.  When  he  awoke,  his  wife  was 
sitting  on  his  knees ;  her  arms  were  around  his  neck. 
She  pressed  her  lips  to  his,  and  said  to  him,  "  My  dear, 
dear  husband."  It  was  the  first  recognition  of  many 
long  and  awful  months.  He  pressed  her  warmly,  convul- 
sively to  his  heart. 

"Sing  to  me,"  she  said;  "sing  to  me  one  of  those  Sab- 
bath-evening songs." 

"  I  can  not  sing,  dearest,"  he  replied ;  "  it  is  enough 
that  you  are  mine  again,  and  here,  here  on  my  breast, 
dearest,  sweetest  wife."  Her  head  fell  on  his  shoulder, 
and  he  poured  into  her  ear  the  glowing  words  of  his  love. 

"  Oh,  these  months  of  wretchedness,  when  you  could 
not  know  that  I  loved  you,  and  longed  to  bless  you,  dear- 
est, as  I  will,  if  God  will  spare  you,  as  he  has  restored  you 
to  my  arms.     Kiss  me  again,  sweet  wife." 

She  did  not  speak.  "  Kiss  me,  love."  Her  head  still 
rested  on  his  shoulder.  He  raised  her  up  to  press  his 
lips  to  hers.     She  was  dead. 


XXI. 

PROPHETS  AND  PROPHETESSES. 

A  woman  has  just  gone,  and  I  will  tell  you  why  she 
came.  She  was  past  middle  age,  not  very  comely,  her 
voice  sharp,  clear,  and  decided.  She  stood,  and  was  be- 
ginning to  speak,  when  I  rose  and  asked  her  to  be  seated. 
She  sat  down  and  was  quiet  for  a  moment.  Presently 
she  began : 

"  I  have  come  to  you  with  a  message  from  the  Lord." 

"Ah,  and  did  you  bring  a  letter  of  introduction  ?" 

"What  did  you  ask?" 

"  I  asked  if  you  brought  your  credentials  with  you :  any 
token  by  which  I  may  be  assured  that  you  are  authorized 
to  speak  to  me  in  the  name  of  the  Lord.  You  are  a  per- 
fect stranger  to  me,  and  there  is  nothing  (pardon  me)  in 
your  appearance  to  indicate  the  divinity  of  your  mission ; 
so  that,  before  I  hear  your  message,  I  ask  for  your  author- 
ity.   If  you  have  brought  no  testimonials,  give  me  a  sign." 

"A  sign  !     What  sign  do  you  ask  ?" 

"Any  sign — a  miracle  or  a  wonder — that  shall  convince 
me  of  your  supernatural  endowment  to  make  known  to 
me  the  mind  of  the  Lord.  Here  is  a  letter  lying  before 
me  undirected.  I  was  on  the  point  of  directing  it  when 
you  came  in ;  now  tell  me  to  whom  it  is  to  be  addressed, 
and  I  will  know  that  you  have  meat  to  eat  that  I  know 
not  of." 

"  I  don't  pretend  to  have  any  such  inspiration  as  that ; 


238  UNDER   THE    TREES. 

but  I  have  studied  the  prophecies,  and  have  been  taught 
of  God  to  know  who  the  Two  Witnesses  are  that  are 
spoken  of  in  the  Revelation,  and  I  have  come  to  make 
it  known  to  you,  and  you  must  teach  it  to  the  Church. 
The  Two  Witnesses  are — " 

"  Stop,  if  you  please,  madam;  I  do  not  care  about  hear- 
ing what  you  have  to  say ;  I  have  forgotten  more  than 
you  know  about  the  Two  Witnesses — " 

"  But  you  must  hear  me,  you  shall  hear  me,  and  the 
whole  Church  is  bound  to  hear  me.  I  have  been  pray- 
ing and  reading  and  thinking  about  these  things  twen- 
ty years,  and  it  has  all  been  opened  to  me  now,  so  that 
the  Church  is  no  longer  to  be  in  any  doubt  about  them. 
Commentators  have  differed :  scarcely  any  two  of  them 
think  alike  ;  but  it  is  all  plain  now.  The  Two  Witnesses 
are—" 

"  I  tell  you  again,  madam,  I  will  not  listen  to  you  unless 
you  give  me  a  sign.  You  are  either  deranged  or  you  are 
divinely  inspired  to  reveal  the  Word  of  God.  It  needs 
no  revelation  to  me.  All  that  is  needful  for  my  instruc- 
tion and  comfort  and  hope  is  as  plain  to  me  as  the  nose 
(pardon  me  again)  on  your  face ;  and  what  things  I  do 
not  understand  I  leave  to  Him  who  gave  them  to  make 
them  plain  in  His  own  good  time  and  way,  if  He  would 
have  me  to  understand  them." 

"  Certainly ;  and  He  has  sent  me  to  tell  you  who  the 
Two  Witnesses  are,  and  I  have  come  to  tell  you  that  they 
are—" 

"  And  I  tell  you,  madam,  that  I  am  not  going  to  hear 
you.  I  know  who  the  Two  Witnesses  are  as  well  as  you 
do,  and  do  not  care  to  be  instructed  on  the  subject." 

"Well,  now,  tell  me.  I'll  hear  what  you  have  to  say. 
I  don't  believe  you  have  the  least  idea  who  the  Two  Wit- 


PROPHETS    AND    PROPHETESSES.  239 

nesses  are,  and  you  never  will  know  unless  I  tell  you. 
Come  now,  who  are  they  ?" 

"  Why,  if  you  know  who  they  are,  and  I  don't,  what  is 
the  use  of  my  trying  to  teach  you.  It  would  be  better  for 
us  both  to  go  about  our  own  work,  and  let  the  Two  Wit- 
nesses alone.'*' 

She  now  rose,  and  with  fierce  invective  denounced  me 
as  slow  of  heart  and  unwilling  to  hear  the  truth  •  and  as 
I  was  resuming  the  pen — the  sceptre  here — she  withdrew. 
She  is  one  of  several  demented  women  who  go  about  per- 
secuting the  Church,  and  annoying  those  unfortunate  men 
who  have  means  of  reaching  the  public  ear.  They  ought 
to  be  tenderly  cared  for  by  their  friends,  and  detained 
from  these  peripatetic  teachings. 

VISIONS    AND    OTHER    NOVELTIES. 

One  of  the  most  curious  chapters  in  philosophy  might 
be  written  by  any  one  who  had  the  facts  in  regard  to  the 
delusions  of  the  human  mind  on  religious  questions. 

A  few  days  ago  I  received  a  letter  of  which  the  follow- 
ing is  a  passage  : 

"  Now  is  the  time  for  the  Dark  Ages  to  pass  away.  He  who 
openeth,  and  no  man  shutteth,  and  shutteth,  and  no  man  openeth,  is 
about  to  shut  the  door  of  the  Dark  Ages  and  open  the  door  to  his 
Kingdom  of  Light.  His  name  shall  be  known  as  God  alone,  as  he 
has  foretold  by  all  his  prophets.  Come  and  see  me.  It  is  very  easy 
to  be  great  like  the  Almighty,  but  it  is  very  hard  to  be  humble  like 
Jesus.  Do  gladden  his  heart  by  letting  him  see  one  humble  man 
in  these  worldly,  self-seeking  days.  I  have  been  humbled  to  the  dust, 
and  you  can  bear  to  talk  with  me,  for  I  assure  you  for  some  years  past 
I  have  received  visions  from  God  revealing  these  wondrous  truths.  If 
it  is  God's  will,  you  must  come.     My  present  address  is,"  etc. 

I  was  very  busy,  but  there  was  something  in  the  letter 
which  made  me  think  that  I  might  do  wrong  if  "  I  were 


240  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

not  obedient  to  the  heavenly  vision."  In  the  parlor  of  one 
of  the  most  fashionable  houses  in  this  city  I  was  received 
by  a  genteel  and  very  ladylike  woman,  who  said,  in  very 
gentle  words — 

"  I  knew  you  would  come ;  the  Lord  made  it  known 
to  me  that  you  would,  and  I  have  a  message  to  you.  He 
has  appeared  to  me  in  the  person  of  a  little  child,  whose 
mouth  was  opened  to  say  the  most  wonderful  things,  and 
it  was  given  to  me  to  know  that  they  came  directly  from 
the  Lord,  who — " 

She  had  not  as  yet  given  me  the  chance  of  a  word,  and 
probably  did  not  care  whether  I  spoke  or  not,  as  she  evi- 
dently proposed  a  conversation  in  which  she  was  to  do 
all  the  talking.  That  is  the  case  generally  with  people 
who  have  a  religious  maggot  in  their  brain,  and  come  to 
other  people  for  aid  and  comfort.  But  when  she  had  run 
on  until  an  opening  for  a  word  appeared,  I  said — 

"  You  tell  me  that  you  have  a  message  from  the  Lord 
to  me ;  what  proof  do  you  propose  to  give  me  that  he  is 
speaking  to  me  through  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  know  he  does ;  I  feel  it  and  see  it ;  and  you 
would  not  doubt  it  for  a  moment  if  you  would  hear  what 
this  dear  child  has  said  to  me,  and  what  she  never  could 
have  dreamed  of  if  it  had  not  been  given  her  of  the 
Lord." 

"  Pardon  me,  madam,  I  have  had  many  men  and  women 
coming  to  me  with  revelations,  and  I  invariably  ask  them 
for  a  sign — something  to  signify  to  me  that  they  are  ac- 
credited from  the  court  of  heaven.  If  a  strange  lady 
should  come  to  me  and  tell  me  that  the  Queen  of  England 
had  sent  her  to  me  with  a  message  of  great  importance,  I 
should  ask  her  for  credentials — some  letter  or  other  token 
by  which  she  could  make  me  certain  that  the  queen  had 


PROPHETS    AND    PROPHETESSES.  241 

deputed  this  unknown  lady  to  be  her  representative.  In 
old  times  monarchs  intrusted  a  seal  ring  to  the  keeping 
of  a  secret  messenger,  that  it  might  be  evidence  of  the 
authority  by  which  he  was  to  speak ;  or  some  password 
which  might  be  understood  between  the  king  and  his  ab- 
sent general,  and  when  that  was  mentioned,  the  claim  of 
the  messenger  was  recognized.  God  gave  his.  prophets 
and  apostles  power  by  which  they  wrought  signs  and 
wonders,  and  men  knew  that  such  could  come  only  from 
him  who  was  King  over  all.     What  can  you  do  ?" 

The  good  woman  was  not  in  the  least  disconcerted  by 
this  address,  and  when  I  closed  with  the  direct  personal 
inquiry  as  to  her  ability  to  prove  her  mission  from  heaven, 
she  was  as  quietly  ready  to  begin  again  as  if  I  had  mere- 
ly spoken  of  the  state  of  the  weather.  Indeed,  all  she 
wanted  was  a  chance  to  speak.  What  a  wonderful  safe- 
ty-valve and  source  of  pleasure  is  the  gift  and  chance  to 
talk  !  Especially  to  people  who  have  but  one  idea.  Only 
one  class  of  people  talk  more  than  those  who  have  only 
one  idea,  and  that  is  the  class  who  have  no  idea  at  all. 
Put  a  man  on  a  hobby,  and  he  rides  forever  without  stop- 
ping. Let  him  become  absorbed  with  one  idea,  and  he 
can  talk  without  ceasing  till  the  ears  of  the  hearers  are 
heavy;  he  is  as  fresh  as  the  morning,  when  they  are 
ready  to  die  of  his  discourse.  This  is  peculiarly  true 
when  a  man  imagines  he  has  had  a  new  religious  experi- 
ence or  revelation.  Having  left  all  other  doctrines  and 
precepts  of  the  Word  of  God,  as  of  very  little  account 
compared  with  his  pet  theory,  he  spends  his  time  in  drill- 
ing other  people  into  his  views.  I  am  the  hapless  victim 
of  numberless  male  and  female  revelators,  who  assure  me 
that  if  I  only  listen  to  them  they  will  show  me  the  truth, 
and  then  I  can  write  about  it  and  do  good  to  thousands, 

Q 


242  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

Ah !  how  often  have  I,  in  a  moment  of  weakness,  yielded 
to  the  nattering  suggestion,  and  permitted  the  bore  to 
have  the  use  of  my  ear!  Talk  —  a  stream  of  talk — 
shallow,  of  course,  for  only  still  waters  run  deep ;  that 
no  barrier  can  arrest,  flows  on,  until  that  divine  virtue, 
patience,  ceases  to  rule,  and  I  have  to  beg,  with  painful 
countenance,  to  be  excused  from  further  instructions. 
This  can  be  done  when  the  orator  is  a  prophet.  But 
when  it  is  a  prophetess,  escape  is  more  difficult. 

The  lady  in  the  parlor  was  fluent,  voluble,  and  sin- 
cere. She  had  one  idea,  and  that  was  absurd.  She  could 
not  speak  two  minutes  without  self-contradiction  twice. 
And  when  I  put  the  contradictions  before  her,  she  was 
just  as  well  pleased  as  if  I  had  assented,  and  rushed  on 
with  the  unending,  overwhelming  chatter.  Doubtless  the 
gift  of  speech  is  good — but,  oh,  how  much  more  good 
when  sense  is  given  with  it ! 

At  last  I  was  obliged  to  interrupt  my  fair  teacher  by 
saying  that  I  could  not  hear  her  message  without  some 
evidence  that  it  was  from  heaven,  and,  as  I  had  several 
little  matters  to  attend  to,  she  must  pardon  me  for  saying 
"  Good-afternoon." 

The  year  1842  was  marked  by  the  sudden  rise,  and 
1843  by  tne  fall  of  the  Millerites,  a  sect  who  had  been 
deluded  with  the  notion  that  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ  would 
come  in  visible  person  on  a  certain  day  in  the  latter  year 
to  receive  his  saints,  to  destroy  his  enemies,  and  to  estab- 
lish his  throne  on  the  earth.  They  took  their  name  from 
William  Miller,  a  Baptist  minister  in  the  northern  part  of 
this  state,  who  had  studied  the  prophecies  until  he  knew 
nothing  about  them,  and  by  a  process  in  arithmetic  pecul- 
iar to  himself  had  hit  upon  the  year  when  the  final  catas- 
trophe was  to  occur,  to  the  confusion  of  the  wicked  and 


PROPHETS    AND    PROPHETESSES.  243 

the  glorification  of  all  who  were  found  waiting  for  the 
coming  of  the  Lord.  It  is  wonderful  with  what  avidity 
this  delusion  was  received.  Its  dupes  numbered  thou- 
sands. They  were  not  of  the  more  intelligent  classes — 
indeed,  very  few  educated  people  were  led  astray — but 
of  serious-minded  and  unlettered  multitudes  who  com- 
posed the  great  mass  of  the  community  at  that  time. 
The  sudden  converts  to  Millerism  were  many.  One  rea- 
son that  operated  rapidly  upon  this  sort  of  people  was 
the  shortness  of  time  allowed  them  to  make  up  their 
minds.  They  were  told  that  the  end  was  at  hand.  First 
the  year  was  fixed ;  then  the  month  and  the  day.  And 
to  make  a  sure  thing  of  it,  they  thought  the  safest  course 
was  to  believe,  and  if  the  crash  came  at  the  appointed  time 
they  would  be  all  right,  and  if  it  did  not  they  would  be 
no  worse  off  than  before  on  account  of  their  faith  in  the 
figures  of  Miller.  And  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  Mil- 
ler's name,  having  an  apparent  analogy  to  Millenarianism, 
helped  to  faith  in  his  calculations.  Thousands  of  excel- 
lent Christian  men,  scholars,  divines — some  of  them  men 
of  wide  repute  for  learning  and  religion — are  Millenari- 
ans  ;  believing  in  the  future  personal  reign  of  Jesus  Christ 
upon  the  earth,  and  in  his  speedy  coming  to  set  up  his 
throne.  But  they  do  not  set  the  time.  Some  writers  of 
this  school  have  found  in  the  figures  of  the  Prophet  Dan- 
iel a  starting-point  and  a  period,  and  have  therefore  vent- 
ured to  fix  the  year  when  the  King  might  be  expected  to 
appear  in  his  glory  ;  but  in  all  such  cases  the  march  of 
time  has  compelled  them  to  find  errors  in  their  calcula- 
tions by  which  the  great  event  was  necessarily  postponed. 
But  in  the  Millerite  year  the  delusion  took  the  form  of 
an  epidemic  or  a  panic.  The  leaders  of  the  sect  peram- 
bulated the  country  with  immense  tents  in  which  to  hold 


244  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

public  meetings,  and  these  were  crowded  for  days  and 
nights  in  succession  by  excited  congregations,  whose 
prayers  and  songs  and  cries  bordered  on  the  delirious. 
Many  became  deranged.  Lunatic  asylums  reported  this 
delusion  as  the  cause  of  insanity  in  many  cases. 

One  night,  very  late,  a  man  came  to  me  with  a  message 
from  God  that  I  must  believe  in  the  speedy  Advent,  and 
teach  it  to  the  people.  He  would  not  be  put  off  with  the 
excuse  that  it  was  nearly  midnight,  and  that  I  could  not 
listen  to  his  discourse  at  such  an  unseasonable  hour.  He 
said  that  nothing  was  so  important  as  the  revelation  he  had 
come  to  make,  and  that  it  was  high  time  I  heard  it.  Then 
he  began  with  his  figures.  He  added,  subtracted,  and  di- 
vided, piled  up  dates  from  history  and  prophecy,  told  of 
the  "  abomination  of  desolation"  that  was  to  be  set  up  and 
that  was  set  up,  and  started  off  from  that  date  and  calcu- 
lated the  downfall  of  the  Roman  Empire  and  the  death 
of  Napoleon,  and  brought  out  1843  as  neatly  as  the  most 
accurate  mathematician  could  desire.  Out  of  breath  at 
the  end  of  his  computation,  and  triumphing  in  the  result, 
he  demanded  my  assent  to  his  conclusion. 
•  I  looked  up  at  him  and  quietly  asked,  "  And  what  do 
you  make  of  the  two  sticks  ?" 

"  Sticks — what  sticks  ?"  he  said. 

"  Well,  sir,"  I  replied,  "  if  you  are  an  expositor  of  the 
prophecies  and  do  not  know  the  two  sticks  of  which  the 
prophet  speaks,  you  must  excuse  me  from  receiving  any 
messages  from  you  as  coming  from  heaven."  He  soon 
left  me  to  my  fate. 

Some  of  the  Millerite  societies  were  so  sure  the  end 
was  at  hand  that  they  put  their  individual  possessions, 
which  were  usually  very  slender,  into  joint  stock,  in  imi- 
tation of  the  early  Christians,  who  had  "all  things  com- 


PROPHETS   AND    PROPHETESSES.  245 

mon."  In  Oneida  County,  New  York,  a  well-to-do  farmer, 
being  converted  to  their  doctrine,  came  to  join  their  meet- 
ing, and,  on  being  told  of  this  rule,  said  he  would  think 
of  it  a  while,  and  pray  over  it.  He  went  away  sorrowful, 
for  he  was  very  rich.  At  the  next  meeting  he  appeared, 
and,  upon  being  called  upon  for  his  answer,  he  said  he 
had  received  a  message  from  heaven,  and  was  prepared 
to  obey.  "  While  engaged  in  prayer  for  divine  direction," 
said  he,  "  I  have  had  one  passage  of  the  Bible  so  power- 
fully impressed  upon  my  mind  that  I  know  it  is  from  God, 
and  I  shall  do  as  I  am  commanded." 

The  brethren  and  sisters  were  in  breathless  expecta- 
tion of  the  tremendous  sacrifice  he  was  about  to  make. 
The  elder  bade  him  be  of  good  courage,  and  declare  the 
message.     And  the  rich  man  said — 

"The  passage  which  came  to  my  mind,  and  which  I 
am  resolved  to  obey,  was  in  these  words — '  Occupy  till 
I  come.' " 

When  the  appointed  time  arrived,  thousands  of  them 
were  ready  as  far  as  their  white  raiment  could  be  re- 
garded as  readiness  for  such  an  event.  So  purely  car- 
nal and  earthly  were  all  their  views  of  this  great  spirit- 
ual change,  that  they  made  linen  garments  called  "  ascen- 
sion robes,"  with  which  they  arrayed  themselves.  Some 
of  them,  in  cities,  took  their  seats  upon  the  edges  of  the 
house-tops.  Others,  in  the  country,  ascended  hills  or 
climbed  into  trees,  and  sat  as  patiently  as  possible,  while 
their  locks  were  wet  with  the  dews  of  the  night.  They 
thought  they  would  see  the  Lord  descending  from  the 
sky,  and  that  they  would  rise  to  meet  him  in  the  air.  It 
was  easy  to  believe  that  a  mistake  of  a  day,  or  even  of  a 
month,  had  been  made  in  reckoning  thousands  of  years, 
and  many  therefore  thought  the  advent  was  still  at  hand, 


246  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

though  they  had  not  hit  upon  the  identical  day.  Others 
gave  up  to  wild  despair.  Many  were  made  faithless  in 
Scripture  when  they  found  they  had  been  duped  by  false 
teachers.  I  never  heard  that  any  were  made  more  char- 
itable, more  patient,  humble  Christians.  The  prominent 
trait  of  character  in  the  Millerites  was  their  censorious 
and  denunciatory  spirit  toward-  those  who  would  not 
adopt  their  arithmetic.  But  their  end  came  when  they 
thought  the  world  was  coming  to  an  end.  The  awful 
day  came.  The  sun  rose,  shone  as  usual,  and  set  just  as 
it  was  in  the  habit  of  doing.  And  then  the  moon  made 
its  quiet  tour  among  the  stars,  and  died  away  in  the  light 
of  another  day.  And  all  things  went  on  as  from  the  be- 
ginning. 

Two  or  three  other  dates  were  fixed  upon,  and  previous 
errors  of  calculation  were  explained,  but  the  end  would 
not  come  any  way  they  could  fix  it.  Miller  subsided  into 
his  farm.  Elder  Himes,  who  had  been  the  fidus  Achates 
of  Miller,  and  had  blown  the  trumpets  in  advance  of  the 
coming  King,  blew  on,  but,  as  before,  it  was  all  sound  and 
fury,  signifying  nothing.  And  now,  after  the  lapse  of  a 
quarter  of  a  century,  there  is  here  and  there  only  a  ves- 
tige remaining  of  a  faith  that  took  possession  of  thousands, 
and  had  its  disciples  in  almost  every  city  and  village  and 
rural  parish  of  the  Northern,  Eastern,  and  Middle  States. 

In  the  month  of  January,  1854,  I  found  a  miserable, 
half-starved  colony  of  this  sect  in  the  Holy  Land.  Their 
delusion  had  received  the  additional  article  of  faith  that 
the  Lord  would  set  up  his  kingdom  in  Palestine,  and 
reign  again  in  the  city  of  the  Great  King.  They  had 
gathered  what  earthly  possessions  they  had,  and  finding 
their  way  across  the  ocean  and  through  the  Mediterranean 
Sea,  had  landed  at  the  ancient  Joppa,  where  dwelt,  once 


PROPHETS   AND   PROPHETESSES.  247 

on  a  time,  that  Simon  the  Tanner  to  whom  Cornelius 
sent  his  messengers.  Near  this  city  they  had  bought  a 
little  land,  which  cost  them  but  a  trifle ;  they  had  reared 
cottages,  and  were  there  waiting.  Poverty  came,  but  the 
Lord  did  not.  Loneliness,  homesickness,  disease,  but  no 
signs  of  the  Healer  and  Saviour.  Some  of  them  lived  to 
be  brought  away  by  the  hand  of  charity,  and  some  of 
them  died  there,  and  their  bodies  will  rest  in  the  grave 
until  the  resurrection,  when  they  shall  be  raised  up,  let  us 
hope,  in  glory. 

But  it  is  no  false  report  that  the  Lord  is  coming.  Not 
in  a  coach  and  four,  and  with  soldier  guards  attending. 
I  do  not  look  for  such  an  appearing.  But  I  see  the  signs 
of  his  advent,  as  when  I  stood  on  the  Rigi  in  the  early 
morn  and  saw  the  eastern  mountain-tops  tipped  with  fire 
as  the  king  of  day  in  his  chariot  of  glory  was  riding  up 
the  steeps.  I  knew  he  was  at  hand.  And  he  came. 
Peak  after  peak  was  on  fire,  and  the  ice  plains  "  caught 
the  flying  joy."  The  valleys  glowed  with  the  sunbeams 
and  the  world  rejoiced  in  the  coming  of  the  king.  It  was 
all  gloomy  when  I  came  out  of  my  lodgings,  but  it  was  all 
glory  now.  And  just  so — yes,  just  so — do  I  see  the  signs 
of  the  coming  of  the  Sun  of  Righteousness,  the  advent  of 
the  Son  of  Man.  Brighter  than  the  eastern  sky  when  the 
sun  is  there,  is  the  promise  of  that  reign  of  peace  and  joy 
which  is  sure  to  come,  when  the  chains  of  superstition  and 
error  and  vice  are  stricken  from  the  soul  of  humanity,  and 
the  race  rejoices  in  the  liberty  of  those  whom  Christ  the 
Lord  enlightens  and  makes  free. 

Professor  George  Bush  was  a  man  of  wide  reputation 
in  his  lifetime,  though  he  has  signally  dropped  out  of  the 
world's  memory.  He  was  born  at  Norwich,  Vermont,  in 
1796,  graduated  at  Dartmouth  in  1818,  studied  theology 


248  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

at  Princeton,  and,  entering  the  Presbyterian  ministry, 
went  out  as  a  missionary  preacher  to  Indiana.  With 
tastes  for  scholastic  studies  rather  than  the  pulpit,  he 
finished  his  Western  ministry  in  four  years,  returned  to 
the  East,  and  devoted  himself  to  Biblical  science.  Becom- 
ing a  thorough  Hebrew  scholar,  he  was  elected  in  183 1  to 
the  professorship  of  that  language  in  the  University  in 
this  city.  His  duties  there  must  have  been  nominal,  and 
his  income  the  same,  for  he  was  in  great  straits  for  means 
of  support,  living  in  the  midst  of  his  books,  and  picking 
up  what  he  could  by  contributions  to  the  press.  He  had 
accumulated  a  vast  store  of  ancient  volumes,  to  which 
the  shelves  of  his  study  were  inadequate,  and  they  cov- 
ered the  tables  and  chairs,  and  lay  around  in  heaps  on 
the  floor.  It  was  hard  to  find  a  seat,  and  harder  to  get 
about  in  his  narrow  quarters.  He  was  the  personification 
of  a  book-worm.  Prematurely  aged  and  wrinkled,  poring 
with  spectacles  of  large  power  over  his  misty  and  antique 
volumes,  spending  his  days  and  nights  in  a  dimly  lighted 
and  ill-ventilated  apartment,  which  was  rarely  cleansed 
of  its  dust,  he  was  the  representation  of  the  ideal  Rosicru- 
cian  searching  for  wisdom.  Social  when  in  company, 
genial  and  good-tempered,  patient  under  contradiction, 
and  tolerant  beyond  the  toleration  of  greater  men,  he  was 
a  pleasant  neighbor,  with  whom  I  had  much  intercourse. 
He  had  already  published  his  "  Life  of  Mohammed,"  and 
a  "  Treatise  on  the  Millennium,"  which  he  held  to  have 
passed  by  long  ago,  and  a  Hebrew  Grammar,  and  a  big 
volume  of  "  Scripture  Illustrations."  Then  he  started  a 
periodical  which  he  called  the  "  Hierophant,"  in  which 
the  types,  symbols,  etc.,  of  the  Bible  were  interpreted  in 
his  way;  and  then  came  his  "Anastasis"  in  1844, in  which 
he  brought   out   an   original  notion  of  the   resurrection 


PROPHETS  AND  PROPHETESSES.  249 

which  nobody  understood,  and  I  never  heard  of  but  one 
man  who  professed  to  adopt  it.  It  is  not  likely  that  his 
disciples  ever  reached  the  number  of  two. 

This  publication  separated  him  in  a  large  measure  from 
the  orthodox  community,  and  shook  confidence  in  the 
soundness  of  his  religious  opinions,  essential  to  the  cir- 
culation of  his  "  Commentaries  on  the  Scriptures,"  which 
he  had  issued  in  successive  volumes. 

As  early  as  the  year  1844  he  became  bewildered  by 
the  phenomenal  representations  of  animal  magnetism  and 
mesmerism,  and  soon  afterward  he  very  naturally  wan- 
dered into  the  faith  of  Swedenborg,  who  may  be  called 
the  father  of  technical  spiritualism.  One  hundred  years 
ago  this  Swedish  philosopher  professed  to  be  in  daily 
converse  with  departed  spirits,  and  a  tradition  says  that 
he  predicted  a  general  reception  of  his  curious  doctrines 
in  eighty  years  after  his  death,  which  would  be  185 1. 
Professor  Bush  was  almost  every  day  in  my  study,  and 
with  great  simplicity  spoke  of  his  wild  beliefs,  especially 
of  the  wonders  of  mesmerism.  He  said  that  he  could 
read  the  character  of  a  person  he  had  never  seen  by  pass- 
ing his  hand  over  his  manuscript.  His  explanation  was 
this  :  "  You  see  there  are  spheres  evolving  from  the  mind 
of  every  living  person,  and  these  spheres  roll  also  from 
the  record  of  the  mind  as  a  manuscript ;  and  when  I  pass 
my  hand  over  the  writing,  my  spheres  come  into  harmony 
with  the  other  person's  spheres,  and  I  thus  become  ac- 
quainted with  him  •  you  understand."  "  It  is  just  as  clear 
as  mud,"  I  assured  him.  And  he  marveled  at  my  little 
faith.  Months  passed  by  after  his  adoption  of  the  Swe- 
denborgian  delusion,  and  he  made  a  public  profession  of 
it  in  a  course  of  lectures  in  this  city.  He  then  wrote  with 
his  own  hand  the  following  notice,  which  was  published  : 


250  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

"Professor  Bush  is  now  delivering  a  course  of  Sabbath-evening 
lectures  in  this  city  on  '  The  Future  Life,  as  disclosed  by  Sweden- 
borg.'  His  audiences  have  been  large  and  respectable,  attracted 
probably  in  great  measure  by  the  novelty  of  the  subject  as  viewed  in 
such  connection,  and  by  the  boldness  and  emphasis  of  tone  in  which 
the  Professor  announces  his  faith  in  the  revelations  of  the  Swedish 
seer.  His  first  lecture,  we  learn,  was  devoted  to  a  general  view  of 
the  evidences  which  he  considered  as  sustaining  his  divine  mission, 
drawn  principally  from  his  representations  of  heaven  and  hell,  which 
he  makes  to  be  the  ultimate  realization  of  certain  moral  states  of  the 
soul,  determined  by  the  influence  of  the  ruling  love  for  good  or  evil. 
The  second  was  announced  in  the  daily  papers  as  offering  proof  that 
'  all  angels  are  human  spirits,'  in  which,  we  understand,  he  fully  took 
the  ground  that  the  existence  of  a  superior  race  of  beings  to  man  is 
not  only  unscriptural  but  impossible,  inasmuch  as  creation  in  the 
image  and  likeness  of  God  is  affirmed  of  man,  and  the  highest  an- 
gel can  not  be  any  thing  more.  Men  and  angels  are  the  same  race 
of  beings  in  different  stages  of  existence.  The  third  announced  a 
somewhat  singular  subject  for  pulpit  discussion,  to  wit, '  The  Relation 
of  Mesmerism  in  its  Higher  Phenomena  to  the  Doctrines  of  Sweden- 
borg.'  The  lecturer  asserted  that  Swedenborg's  psychological  state 
was  altogether  of  a  higher  order  than  that  produced  by  mesmerism, 
and  that  the  belief  of  his  followers  was  wholly  independent  of  the 
truth  or  falsehood  of  the  alleged  mesmeric  developments.  The  mode 
in  which  he  brought  the  two  things  into  connection  was  this  :  In  the 
mesmeric  state  the  spirit  predominates,  for  the  time  being,  over  the 
body.  The  bodily  sensations  are  suspended  while  the  soul  is  awake 
and  active,  though  mysteriously  influenced  by  the  operator.  Its  state 
therefore  approximates  to  the  state  of  a  spirit  dislodged  from  the 
body.  A  new  condition  is  developed,  especially  as  far. as  the  laws  of 
mental  intercourse  are  concerned.  This  lays  the  foundation  for  a 
comparison  of  the  phenomena  displayed  with  the  professed  disclos- 
ures of  Swedenborg  relative  to  the  facts  and  laws  of  spiritual  com- 
munication in  the  other  life.  The  result  Professor  Bush  undertook  to 
show  to  be  such  a  striking  coincidence  as  to  force  upon  the  mind  the 
conviction  that  if  mesmerism  is  true,  Swedenborgianism  is  true,  for  the 
revelations  of  both  showed  that  they  belonged  to  the  same  great  sys- 
tem of  spiritual  manifestations.  This  he  held  to  be  the  more  remark- 
able as  Swedenborg  died  ten  years  before  Mesmer  was  heard  of. 
From  the  relation  in  which  Professor  Bush  has  hitherto  stood  to  the 


PROPHETS   AND    PROPHETESSES.  25 1 

Christian  community,  we  have  deemed  it  our  duty  to  make  our  read- 
ers acquainted  with  his  present  position.  We  believe  he  makes  no 
reserve  himself  of  the  fact  that  he  has  come  to  entertain  a  full  con- 
viction of  the  truth  and  authority  of  Swedenborg's  mission.  This 
might  perhaps  have  been  anticipated  from  the  tenor  of  his  recent 
publications  on  the  Resurrection  and  its  kindred  subjects.  We  are 
ready  to  give  him  credit  for  sincerity  and  honesty  in  his  convictions  " 
[and  the  editor  added,  "  however  much  we  may  regret  that  a  man  of 
his  erudition  should  thus  make  shipwreck  of  the  faith,  and  plunge 
headlong  into  the  abyss  of  error  "]. 

He  became  the  leading  writer  and  teacher  of  the  sect; 
went  to  Rochester,  and  died  there.  It  was  in  Professor 
Bush's  room  that  I  met  Andrew  Jackson  Davis  shortly 
after  he  began  to  talk  spiritualism — an  ignorant  young 
man  of  talents,  who  has  since  become  an  apostle  of  spir- 
itualism, and  the  source  of  larger  books  with  nothing  in 
them  than  any  other  man  of  the  age.  At  the  house  of 
the  President  of  the  United  States  I  was  present  when 
the  disquisitions  of  Davis  and  some  pretended  communi- 
cations from  dead  statesmen  were  under  discussion.  The 
volumes  were  produced  and  passages  read,  while  the 
question  was  seriously  asked,  "  What  is  all  this  but  the 
merest  platitude,  of  which  a  living  sensible  author  would 
be  ashamed  ?" 

Hon.  Waddy  Thompson,  United  States  Minister  to  Mex- 
ico, a  very  prominent  Southern  politician,  was  in  Wash- 
ington at  that  time,  and  I  met  him  at  Gadsby's  Hotel. 
He  said  to  me,  "  You  will  be  pleased  to  learn  that  I  have 
been  led  from  the  utter  darkness  of  atheism  to  believe  in 
spiritual  religion,  and  all  by  the  influence  of  spirit  rap- 
pings."  He  then  informed  me  of  the  specific  revelations 
that  had  been  made  to  him.  The  Rochester  Fox  women 
were  then  giving  lessons  in  spiritualism  in  Washington, 
and  many  public  men  were  converted  to  their  school. 
Mr.  Thompson  said  : 


252  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

"  I  knew  a  man  who  had  killed  his  friend  in  a  duel, 
and  was  afterward  afraid  to  sleep  in  a  room  alone.  He 
finally  died.  I  called  for  him  when  the  rappings  were 
going  on,  and  very  soon  I  heard  a  clawing  and  scratching 
(rising  and  putting  his  hands  against  the  wall,  he  scratch- 
ed down),  as  if  a  wild  beast  were  clawing  a  bar  of  iron." 
This  he  gave  me  as  evidence  that  the  man  was  actually 
in  the  midst  of  torment  for  his  awful  crime. 

Professor  Bush  would  not  let  me  go  with  him  to  any 
of  the  circles  where  the  mesmeric  experiments  were  to  be 
seen,  for  he  held  that  so  obstinate  an  unbeliever  would 
interfere  with  their  success.  His  view  was  that  the  con- 
sent of  the  will  of  all  present  was  essential.  Why  of 
those  present  only,  he  never  explained.  But  when  the 
Fox  women  came  here  from  Rochester,  they  proved  to  be 
such  efficient  manipulators  that  faith  was  not  required  to 
make  miracles.  They  could  bring  the  spirits  into  con- 
versation with  any  body  for  a  dollar. 

I  spent  an  evening  with  one  of  them,  and  had  the  best 
possible  opportunity  of  testing  for  myself  the  spirituality 
of  the  conversation.  I  was  directed  by  Miss  Fcx  to  write 
five  or  six  names  of  departed  friends,  and  to  touch  each 
name,  saying,  "  Is  this  one  present  ?"  I  had  no  difficulty 
in  having  the  assenting  rap  made  at  any  name  I  pleased 
— for  in  this  and  several  other  trials,  when  it  was  required 
that  I  should  write  and  ask  "  Is  it  this  ?"  if  I  allowed  my 
voice  to  tremble  a  little,  or  to  be  specially  firm  in  utter- 
ance, the  rap  was  sure  to  come.  Paper  and  pencil  were 
put  on  the  floor  under  the  table,  but  I  was  not  allowed  to 
look  under ;  and  a  scrawl  was  found  upon  the  paper, 
which  might  have  been  written  by  the  toes  or  smuggled 
there.  Fifty  experiments  were  performed,  none  of  which 
were  satisfactory,  and  the  young  woman  expressed  her  re- 


PROPHETS  AND  PROPHETESSES.  253 

gret  at  the  total  failure  of  the  evening.  I  was  convinced 
that  the  whole  affair  was  a  mixture  of  delusion  and  im- 
posture. 

There  are  some  facts  at  present  inexplicable  to  unbe- 
lievers, as  there  are  in  the  feats  of  necromancers  or  deal- 
ers with  the  dead.  And  some  of  the  simplest  tricks  of 
jugglers  are  beyond  the  reach  of  ordinary  ingenuity. 
There  is  also  an  unseen  force  of  mind  on  mind,  the  laws 
of  which  are  not  yet  understood.  And  the  subtle  power 
to  which  we  have  given  the  name  of  magnetism  has  its 
influence  over  material  objects  and  living  bodies  in  a 
way  that  we  have  not  yet  discovered.  But  since  the 
world  was  made,  the  soul  of  no  dead  man  has  made  signs 
to  a  live  one  of  what  is  going  on  in  the  world  of  spirits ; 
and  apart  from  what  we  know  of  the  spirit  world  from  the 
book  of  Revelation,  the  veil  is  unjbroken,  and  beyond  it  all 
is  mystery.  Bodily  senses  are  not  the  media  of  spiritual 
communications ;  and  between  the  living  and  the  dead  a 
great  gulf  is  fixed. 

Rev.  Dr.  Edward  Beecher  made  a  book  on  the  pre-ex- 
istence  of  the  human  soul.  I  can  not  state  the  doctrine, 
but  it  was  the  ancient  Eastern  tenet  of  the  life  of  the  soul 
in  a  state  of  being  prior  to  its  union  with  the  human  body. 
I  never  saw  a  living  man  who  believed  the  doctrine,  though 
the  book  has  been  before  the  world  some  twenty  years. 
And  the  nearest  that  I  ever  came  to  seeing  a  dead  man 
who  had  believed  it  was  in  Syria,  in  Mount  Lebanon.  I 
was  admitted  into  the  sacred  tomb  of  a  man  reputed  to 
have  been  wise,  who  had  been  buried  a  thousand  or  two 
years  ago,  and  who  had  been  a  believer  in  the  doctrine 
of  Dr.  Beecher's  book.  The  author  and  this  old  Pytha- 
gorean philosopher  are  the  only  two  men  whom  I  was 
ever  near  who  held  to  the  transmigration  of  souls. 


254  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

And  other  men  have  spent  their  strength  for  naught  in 
attempts  to  make  truth  more  simple,  and  have  succeeded 
only  in  leaving  it  as  they  found  it,  if  they  did  not  darken 
it  by  their  words  without  knowledge.  A  very  eminent 
divine  of  the  Presbyterian  Church,  a  professor  of  meta- 
physics, and  who  knew  almost  every  thing  else  better 
than  he  did  metaphysics,  made  a  book  to  explain  the 
"  existence  of  evil  under  the  government  of  a  benevolent 
God."  He  brought  it  to  me  in  manuscript,  and  I  en- 
dured the  hearing  of  tedious  pages  and  chapters  long 
drawn  out.  I  assured  him  candidly  that  he  had  not 
thrown  one  ray  of  light  on  the  subject,  and  his  book 
would  do  nobody  any  good.  But  he  printed  it,  and  then 
begged  me  to  read  the  whole  of  it.  Incredible  as  the 
statement  may  appear,  I  did.  Again  he  came  to  know 
the  effect,  and  I  told  him  frankly  that  "  if  I  knew  any  thing 
about  the  subject  before  reading  his  book,  I  was  now 
helplessly  in  the  fog." 

"The  trouble  is,"  said  he,  "you  have  not  a  metaphys- 
ical mind." 

"  Very  true,"  I  answered  ;  "  but  if  I  have  the  average  or 
ordinary  intelligence  of  the  human  family,  and  you  have 
made  a  book  that  I  positively  can  not  make  head  or  tail 
of,  what  good  will  it  do  ?" 

His  book  was  published  and  reviewed  (I  doubt  much 
if  the  critics  read  it),  and  to  this  day  I  do  not  know  of 
another  man  who  went  through  as  I  did,  with  the  hero- 
ism of  a  martyr,  that  mysterious  and  muddy  volume,  that 
was  to  make  all  things  clear,  even  the  deep  things  of 
God. 

A  rural  clergyman,  quite  innocent  of  the  ways  of  the 
trade,  brought  to  me  a  huge  manuscript,  "  The  Revelation 
of  St.  John  Revealed."    He  had  discovered  the  full  mean- 


PROPHETS    AND    PROPHETESSES.  255 

ing  of  the  mysteries  of  the  Apocalypse,  and  if  he  could 
find  a  publisher  who  would  print  his  work,  that  wonder- 
ful portion  of  sacred  writing,  so  long  baffling  the  critics 
and  commentators,  would  be  as  simple  as  the  songs  of 
Zion.  Would  I  put  him  in  the  way  of  making  the  ac- 
quaintance of  a  publisher  who  would  bring  out  this  im- 
portant volume  ?  I  was  frank,  and  warned  him  that  he 
was  on  a  vain  errand ;  he  could  not  get  a  publisher  in 
New  York  to  look  into  his  book,  and  I  did  not  believe 
he  would  do  any  good  by  printing  it.  But  he  was  not 
discouraged ;  all  he  wanted  was  to  get  into  print. 

"Well,"  said  I,  at  last,  "you  take  the  book  to  any  pub- 
lisher you  please,  and  tell  him  from  me  that  if  he  will 
publish  the  work  in  good  style,  you  will  bring  the  first 
copy  to  me,  and  I  will  read  it,  and  if  it  enable  me  to  un- 
derstand the  book  of  Revelation,  I  will  pay  the  bill  for 
the  publication  of  the  whole  edition."  The  good  man 
went  away,  and  I  have  never  heard  of  him  or  his  book 
from  that  hour. 

Another  popular  preacher  came  to  me  with  an  immense 
manuscript.  Fearful  to  relate,  it  was  an  epic  poem  in 
ten  books,  of  the  size  of  Milton's  "  Paradise  Lost."  And 
thus  the  poet  pastor  spoke  : 

"  I  have  written  a  poem.  It  has  been  the  labor  of  the 
last  twenty  years.  I  have  obeyed  the  injunction  of  Hor- 
ace in  his  "  Ars  Poetica,"  and  have  written  it  over  from 
beginning  to  end  nine  times,  and  intend  to  write  it  again 
after  having  submitted  it  to  Professor  Wilson,  of  Edin- 
burgh, Bryant,  Longfellow,  and  yourself  (!).  When  will  it 
be  convenient  for  you  to  hear  me  read  it,  or  would  you 
prefer  to  take  the  work  and  peruse  it  in  your  study?" 

To  whom  I :  "  Have  you  reflected  upon  the  magnitude 
of  the  undertaking — an  epic  poem  ?     But  one  has  been  a 


256  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

success  in  the  English  language ;  and  he  must  be  bold 
who  offers  to  make  the  next." 

"I  am  aware  of  it,"  he  replied.  "Only  one  epic  poet 
can  be  in  any  age  ;  there  has  none  appeared  in  ours,  and 
it  remains  to  be  seen  if  I  am  not  the  man." 

I  made  answer  :  "  You  may  be  the  poet  of  the  century, 
but  as  I  shall  have  to  sit  in  judgment  upon  your  work 
after  it  appears,  you  will  perceive  that  my  judgment  will 
be  biased  by  reading  it  now,  and  you  must  excuse  me 
from  the  service  to  which  your  partiality  has  invited  me." 

His  poem  was  handsomely  published,  but  no  man  has 
confessed  that  he  read  it.     It  died  and  made  no  sign. 

It  was  on  the  edge  of  the  evening,  when  I  was  told  that 
a  woman  at  the  door  wished  to  speak  with  me.  A  plain- 
ly dressed  person  she  was,  and  evidently  of  the  Irish  ele- 
ment, sober  and  very  civil  spoken.  She  began  at  once 
with  her  errand,  and  with  less  of  an  introduction  than  is 
common  with  the  men  or  women  of  her  country,  she  said  : 

"  Please  your  reverence,  and  I  want  to  be  turned." 

"  I  do  not  understand  you.  What  do  3-ou  say  you 
want  V 

"And  I  want  to  be  turned  !"  Still  assuring  her  that  I 
did  not  get  hold  of  her  meaning,  and  that  she  must  be 
more  explicit  in  her  request,  or  I  should  not  be  able  to  do 
any  thing  for  her,  she  made  another  and  vigorous  attempt 
to  make  me  understand  what  she  was  seeking,  and  this 
time  she  was  completely  successful.     She  said  : 

"I  am  a  Catholic,  sir,  and  I  want  to  be  turned  into  a 
Protestant,  sir ;  and  I  was  told  your  reverence  was  one 
of  them  that  turns  the  Catholics  into  Protestants,  and  I 
come  to  get  myself  turned,  sir." 

The  simple  earnestness  with  which  the  woman  stated 
her  case  divested  it  of  the  ludicrous,  which  it  wears  to 


PROPHETS    AND    PROPHETESSES.  257 

one  who  hears  the  story  told,  and  can  not  see,  as  I 
did,  that  the  poor  woman  had  come  for  a  purpose  which 
she  now  frankly  stated;  and  when  I  said  to  her,  "Why 
do  you  want  to  change  your  religion  and  become  a  Prot- 
estant ?"  she  was  ready  with  a  reason,  which  she  gave 
with  great  freedom,  and  I  presume  with  perfect  candor 
and  truthfulness. 

"My  husband  is  a  Protestant,  your  reverence,  and  I 
am  a  Catholic,  and  we  fight  a  great  deal  about  it — we  can 
never  agree  at  all,  at  all ;  and  I  just  thought  if  I  could  be 
turned  into  a  Protestant  too,  that  then  we  would  be  both 
one  way  of  thinkin'  like,  and  we  would  have  nothing  to 
fight  about  at  all,  at  all ;  and  would  your  reverence  be  so 
good  as  just  to  turn  me  into  a  Protestant,  and  I'll  bless 
you  the  longest  day  I  live." 

Finding  that  she  was  really  and  truly  set  upon  making 
a  change  of  base  and  taking  a  new  departure,  I  sought, 
in  simple  words  and  few,  to  explain  to  her  what  was  re- 
quired of  one  who  would  sincerely  embrace  the  faith  of 
Protestant  Christians,  and  turn  away  from  the  Church  of 
which  she  had  been  a  member.  And  I  told  her  that  I 
could  do  nothing  for  her — that  she  must  go  directly  to 
Him  who  had  promised  to  be  the  Saviour  of  all  who  be- 
lieve on  Him ;  and  that  to  be  a  Protestant  it  was  necessary 
only  that  she  should  receive  Christ  as  her  Saviour,  and 
not  rely  upon  a  priest  to  say  mass,  nor  a  Virgin  Mary  to 
intercede  for  her.  She  did  not  get  into  the  sense  of  this, 
and  insisted  that  she  must  then  and  there,  before  she 
went  again  to  her  home,  become  a  Protestant,  and  be  able 
to  tell  her  husband  so.  To  satisfy  her,  and  to  do  as  well 
by  her  as  I  could,  I  then  went  to  my  library  and,  taking 
a  folio  volume,  wrote  a  renunciation  of  every  evil  way, 
and  a  pledge   of  faithful   obedience   to  the  command- 

R 


258  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

ments  of  Christ,  by  faith  in  whom  salvation  is  to  be 
found.  Armed  with  this  volume,  I  came  again  to  the 
woman  and  read  in  her  hearing  the  words  I  had  written, 
explaining  their  full  meaning  to  her  as  I  read. 

"That's  it,"  she  said;  "that's  just  what  I  want:  now 
we  won't  fight  again." 

She  could  not  write  her  name  to  the  deed  of  renuncia- 
tion, but  she  made  her  mark  with  a  bold  and  steady  hand, 
for  her  mind  was  made  up,  and  she  knew  what  she  was 
doing.  The  deed  was  done,  and  she  was  going  away 
with  many  blessings  on  me  for  turning  her  into  a  Prot- 
estant, when  she  stopped  on  the  steps  and  said : 

"And  I'll  come  to  you  to  confess." 

"  No,  no,  my  good  woman,  you  are  not  much  of  a  Prot- 
estant if  you  are  coming  to  me  or  any  other  man  to  con- 
fess your  sins.  Tell  all  your  sins  to  God,  and  he  will  for- 
give you  for  Christ's  sake,  and  then  sin  no  more;  but 
don't  come  to  me  to  confess." 

"But  I  will,"  she  said  as  she  disappeared  from  the 
door.  I  never  saw  nor  heard  from  her  again.  It  was  a 
blunder  of  mine  not  to  take  the  number  and  street  where 
she  and  her  husband  in  time  past  had  their  battle-ground, 
for  I  might  then  have  followed  her  up,  and  perhaps 
strengthened  her  resolutions  of  reform,  and  done  some 
good  to  her  husband,  who,  Protestant  as  he  was,  was  prob- 
ably quite  as  much  to  blame  for  the  fighting  as  the  wife. 
And  it  is  very  certain  that  if  he  were  as  much  disposed  to 
avoid  quarreling  as  she  was,  the  reign  of  peace  would 
have  been  perpetual  in  that  house.  As  it  takes  two  to 
make  a  bargain,  so  it  always  requires  at  least  two  for  a 
fight.  It  was  certainly  a  great  shame  that  "  Betsey  and 
he"  should  be  "out"  on  the  subject  of  religion,  just  the 
last  thing  in  the  world  about  which  people  should  quar- 


PROPHETS    AND    PROPHETESSES.  259 

rel.  But  the  subject-matter  of  dispute  is  of  very  little  im- 
portance in  families  or  states  ;  if  the  disposition  to  quar- 
rel exist,  there  is  no  loss  for  an  occasion.  Out  of  the 
heart  come  fightings.  Even  those  who  love  one  another 
may  get  into  a  fight  if  there  is  not  a  disposition  in  each 
party  to  .let  the  other  have  his  or  her  way  and  the  last 
word.  The  old  story  of  the  rat  and  the  mouse  is  older 
than  mine  of  the  woman  who  wanted  to  be  turned,  and 
like  that  story  will  bear  being  told  once  more. 

A  loving,  newly  married  couple  sat  down  to  tea  for  the 
first  time  in  their  new  home.  Happy  as  a  pair  of  birds, 
they  were  billing  and  cooing  to  each  other,  when  see- 
ing something  run  out  of  the  chimney  corner,  they  ex- 
claimed— one  of  them, "  Oh,  see  that  rat !"  and  the  other, 
"Oh,  see  that  mouse !" 

"  Oh  no,  it  was  a  rat." 

"  No,  it  was  a  mouse." 

"  Not  at  all,  my  dear ;  I  saw  it,  and  I  am  sure  it  was  a 
rat." 

"  And  I  saw  it  too,  and  I  know  it  was  a  mouse." 

"I  say  it  was  a  rat." 

"I  say  it  was  a  mouse." 

"'Twas  a  rat."  "  Twas  a  mouse."  "  Twas  a  rat." 
"  'Twas  a  mouse."  And  they  kept  it  up  till  both  were  in 
a  passion,  and  finally  the  bride  in  her  tears  and  her 
anger  said  she  would  go  home  to  her  parents ;  and  away 
she  went. 

A  few  days  or  weeks  of  reflection  showed  them  both 
their  exceeding  folly,  and  they  readily  yielded  to  the  sug- 
gestion of  friends  that  they  were  a  couple  of  little  fools, 
and  had  better  come  together  again,  which  they  did. 

Once  more  seated  at  their  cheerful  tea-table  in  the  co- 
siest of  rooms,  and  happy  in  the  thought  that  they  were 


260  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

restored  to  their  own  sweet  home,  they  looked  across  the 
table  into  each  other's  eyes,  and  one  of  them  said  laugh- 
ingly to  the  other : 

"  Was  it  not  foolish  for  us  to  make  such  a  fuss  about 
that  good-for-nothing  little  mouse  ?" 

"Why,  dear, it  wasn't  a  mouse — it  was  a  rat." 
"  No,  love,  it  was  a  mouse ;  I  saw  it  myself." 
"  And  so  did  I,  and  I  am  sure  it  was  a  rat." 
And  so  at  it  they  went  again,  one  as  positive  and  un- 
yielding as  the  other,  till  they  were  as  mad  as  they  were 
before,  and  the  wife  went  off  to  her  papa,  and  that  ended 
the  story. 


XXII. 

ON  LYING  AND  LENDING. 

There  is  an  art  in  lying,  but  you  have  no  need  to 
read  any  thing  about  it.  That  remark  sounds  as  if  you 
are  so  familiar  with  the  art  as  to  require  no  further  in- 
struction. Such  is  not  the  intent;  but  this:  You  are  so 
free  from  tendencies  in  that  direction,  you  so  love,  honor, 
and  cherish  the  truth  as  the  holiest  of  holies,  that  I  need 
not  spend  time  in  giving  you  lessons  in  an  art  you  will 
never  practice  nor  preach. 

Nor  will  I  give  lessons  for  any  body  in  this  art,  which 
is  so  well  understood  as  to  require  no  books  to  teach  it, 
no  rules  to  govern  it.  It  has  its  masters  every  where. 
They  go  astray,  said  the  ancient  poet,  from  the  birth, 
speaking  lies.  It  was  lying  that  began  the  fall  in  Eden, 
and  it  has  been  growing  ever  since.  In  some  countries 
it  is  so  common,  this  telling  of  lies,  that  no  one  believes 
his  neighbor.  The  Greeks  are  said  to  be  great  liars.  In 
heathen  countries  very  slight  regard  is  paid  to  the  truth. 
We  are  in  the  habit  of  saying  that  Roman  Catholics  re- 
gard the  truth  with  less  sacredness  than  we  do.  But  I 
do  not  know  that  lying  is  any  more  common  among  them 
than  among  large  classes  of  people  who  call  themselves 
Protestants.  Take  the  money-making  men,  who  get  their 
gains  by  the  rise  and  fall  of  prices.  Is  it  any  strange 
thing  for  them  to  set  on  foot  a  lie  to  affect  the  market? 
Being  myself  in  the  newspaper  line,  I  would  be  very 


262  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

slow  to  intimate  that  newspapers  ever  say  any  thing  that 
is  not  strictly  true.  But  when  two  of  the  daily  papers 
get  into  a  quarrel,  the  tricks  of  the  trade  sometimes 
come  out ;  and  we  have  reason  to  fear  that  sometimes, 
in  default  of  news  from  the  seat  of  war,  there  is  a  manu- 
facture of  "  cable  telegrams  "  and  •"  letters  from  our  cor- 
respondents," which  are  palmed  off  upon  the  unsuspect- 
ing public  as  veritable  facts.  This  is  lying,  and  there  is 
great  art  in  it.  A  litterateur  told  me  that  he  prepares  a 
weekly  article  for  one  of  the  city  papers  on  the  "  Rats  of 
Brazil,"  or  the  "  Cockroaches  in  Japan,"  or  something  of 
that  sort.  "Not  that  there  are  any,"  said  he,  "but  I  make 
a  sensational  chapter  on  a  subject  that  few  can  know  any 
thing  about,  and  I  get  ten  dollars  for  it.  That  pays  my 
board."  Here  was  a  specimen  of  the  art  of  lying ;  in- 
deed, it  was  elevated  to  the  rank  of  the  fine  arts.  Cer- 
tainly it  becomes  a  fine  art,  when  a  painting  is  offered  for 
sale  as  an  original  which  has  been  copied  from  a  copy, 
and  half  ruined  to  make  it  bear  the  marks  of  age. 

There  is  another  art  that  comes  under  the  same  head, 
or  on  the  same  head,  and  that  is  the  art  of  coloring  the 
hair.  One  of  my  ministerial  acquaintances  undertook  to 
lie  about  his  hair — that  is,  to  dye  it — and  the  chemical 
compound  that  he  used  produced  such  a  frightful  color 
that  he  was  frightened  with  the  fear  of  divine  judgment 
on  his  head.  I  think  dyeing  is  lying.  Whether  a  man 
or  a  woman  do  it,  the  motive  is  a  bad  one :  the  intent  is 
to  deceive,  and  that  is  the  very  essence  of  lying.  I  am 
told  that  one  half  of  the  men  who  go  to  our  church  dye 
their  hair  habitually,  and,  if  so,  I  shall  run  the  chance  of 
giving  offense  to  many  whom  I  would  much  rather  please. 

You  ask  a  mechanic  to  do  a  job  for  you.  It  is  his 
trade ;  he  wants  to  do  it,  and  he  gets  his  pay  for  it.     He 


ON   LYING   AND   LENDING.  263 

promises  you  it  shall  be  done  by  Saturday  night.  Another 
customer  and  another  comes,  and  he  wishes  to  serve 
them  all  and  get  their  money.  He  makes  the  same 
promise,  well  knowing  that  some  of  them  must  be  disap- 
pointed. Job  after  job  is  thus  engaged,  and  the  same 
promise  repeated,  with  the  dead  certainty  that  it  will  be 
broken.  This  is  the  art  of  lying  applied  to  a  trade.  And 
it  runs  through  a  hundred  trades.  It  destroys  confidence 
in  human  nature.  But  it  is  the  custom,  and  is  as  universal 
in  Christian  countries  as  in  heathen.  There  is  very  little 
conscience  about  it.  "  Other  people  do  so,  and  the  job 
will  go  somewhere  else  if  I  do  not  promise  f  and  so  it  is 
taken,  and  the  lie  is  told. 

Borrowers  are  often  great  liars.      There  is  less  con- 
science in  this  than  in  almost  any  other  matter.    Many  a 
man  who  would  see  a  twenty-dollar  bill  lying  on  my  ta- 
ble and  never  think  of  stealing  it,  will  ask  me  to  lend  it 
to  him  and  never  pay  it.     Or,  what  is  next  door  to  the 
same  thing,  will  not  pay  it  when  it  was  promised.    I  knew 
a  clergyman  who  would  get  his  check  cashed  after  bank 
hours  "by  a  friend  who  would  find  the  next  day  that  the 
minister  had  no   money  in  the   bank,  and  never  had. 
There  is  no  true  religion  in  a  man  who  borrows  and  does 
not  pay  when  he  engages  to  do  so.      Misfortune  may 
overtake  him,  and  unforeseen  circumstances  prevent  his 
doing  his  duty;  such  cases  are  exceptional.    But  borrow- 
ers are  often  great  liars.     I  would  there  were  more  con- 
science in  the  matter  of  borrowing  books.    A  friend  gave 
me  four  volumes  of  a  Latin  classic  with  a  French  transla- 
tion, elegantly  bound  in  gilt  calf.    A  Quaker  friend  asked 
me  to  lend  him  one  volume  of  it  for  a  special  purpose,  with 
the  promise  of  its  speedy  return.    Alas !  he  never  brought 


264  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

it  back  j  and  when  I  sent  for  it,  he  said  he  had  mislaid, 
lost  it.  The  three  remaining  volumes  are  standing  up 
before  me  this  moment,  silent  witnesses  that  this  friend 
was — well,  what  shall  I  call  him  ?  to  say  he  was  a  liar  or 
a  thief  is  hard,  but  he  injured  me  quite  as  much  as  if  he 
had  stolen  my  book.  And  he  certainly  broke"  his  prom- 
ise. If  that  were  not  the  art  of  lying,  it  was  the  art  of 
book-keeping,  and  I  have  the  best  of  reasons  to  know 
that  book-keeping  is  not  one  of  the  lost  arts. 

Truth  between  man  and  man  is  one  of  the  cardinal 
virtues.  It  is  at  the  basis  of  good  character  and  of  hon- 
orable success  in  life.  It  despises  shams  in  public  and 
private.  Hating  deception  of  every  form  and  kind — all 
glosses,  paints,  covers,  disguises,  subterfuges,  tricks,  eva- 
sions, every  thing  that  maketh  a  lie,  that  misleads  or  de- 
ceives another — it  is  always  above-board,  frank,  manly, 
courageous,  and  faithful.  In  the  Church  and  in  the  world 
there  is  an  abundant  lack  of  this  vital  element  of  honest 
truth.  It  is  not  always  good  manners  to  call  a  spade  a 
spade,  but  to  attempt  to  deceive  is  to  lie,  and  for  the  want 
of  a  better  word  I  use  it.  It  was  a  great  poet  and  good 
man  who  once  said  in  haste,  "All  men  are  liars."  I  do 
not  venture  upon  so  broad  and  unwarrantable  an  asser- 
tion. I  should  be  untrue,  if  I  did.  But  with  every  de- 
sire to  be  charitable  and  within  bounds,  and  not  so  hasty 
as  the  bard  of  old,  I  am  constrained  to  say  with  Recorder 
Riker  that  "  the  practice  is  quite  too  common  in  this 
community." 

I  have  met  with  something  of  a  loss.  Not  money ;  I 
could,  from  bitter  experience,  write  feelingly  of  that  sor- 
row. Just  now  I  am  mourning  the  loss  of  a  text  of 
Scripture,  and  how  it  happened  is  in  this  wise  :  In  the 


ON    LYING   AND    LENDING.  265 

Second  Book  of  Kings  it  is  written  that  the  students  of 
a  theological  seminary  thought  their  quarters  were  too 
small,  and  proposed  to  the  president,  whose  name  was 
Elisha,  that  they  should  build  something  on  a  larger  scale. 
He  gave  his  consent,  and  they  went  to  work.  As  they 
were  cutting  down  a  tree  on  the  banks  of  Jordan,  the  axe 
of  one  of  the  students  fell  into  the  water  and  sank ;  the 
loser  cried  out  and  said,  "  Alas,  master !  for  it  was  bor- 
rowed." Now,  on  taking  up  a  new  and  learned  commen- 
tary on  this  book  by  Dr.  Kiel,  I  find  that  in  his  notes 
upon  this  text  he  says  :  "  The  word  here  rendered  bor- 
rowed is  begged;  the  meaning  to  borrow  is  attributed  from 
a  misinterpretation  :  the  prophet's  pupil  had  begged  the 
axe,  because  from  his  poverty  he  was  unable  to  buy  one ; 
and  hence  the  loss  was  so  painful  to  him." 

I  had  always  valued  that  text  as  one  left  on  long  rec- 
ord, as  a  testimony  that  one  man  once  lived  who  regret- 
ted the  loss  of  a  thing  the  more  because  it  was  borrowed 
than  if  it  had  been  his  own.  To  be  sure,  we  have  not  the 
young  man's  name  :  like  Lot's  wife,  he  is  an  anonymous 
individual.  But  his  virtuous  exclamation  of  sorrow,  his 
plaintive  wail  as  the  axe  fell  from  his  hand  and  sank  be- 
neath the  wave,  was  to  go  down  to  all  time  as  the  fitting 
reflection  of  every  right  man  when  he  loses  any  thing 
that  he  had  borrowed.  Dr.  Jamieson,  who  has  just  made 
a  new  commentary  on  Kings,  holds  fast  to  the  old  idea 
of  the  translator,  though  he  gives  a  mean  kind  of  a  rea- 
son for  the  young  man's  grief.  He  writes :  "  The  schol- 
ar's distress  arose  from  the  consideration  that  the  axe  had 
been  lent  to  him;  and  that,  owing  to  his  poverty,  he  could 
not  procure  another."  That  is  too  bad.  I  supposed  the 
young  man  was  sorry  that  he  had  lost  another  man's 
property;  and,  because  of  his  own  poverty,  could  not  re- 


266  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

place  it.  But  Dr.  Jamieson  thinks  the  boy  was  grieved 
only  because  he  could  not  get  another  axe.  Well,  the 
doctor  has  the  idea  of  most  borrowers,  we  must  admit. 
An  habitual  borrower  has  as  little  conscience  as  Dr. 
Jamieson  attributes  to  this  student  in  Dr.  Elisha's  theo- 
logical school.  He  keeps  what  he  borrowed,  till  he  re- 
gards it  as  his  own ;  or,  losing  it,  regrets  the  loss  on  his 
own  account  only,  and  not  the  owner's. 

A  neighbor  in  the  country  who  sends  in  every  day  to 
borrow  a  little  of  this,  and  just  a  little  of  that,  and  a  very 
little  of  the  other  thing — now  it  is  milk,  now  eggs,  now 
sugar,  now  soap — is  not  a  very  desirable  neighbor,  except 
as  all  afflictions,  crosses,  vexations,  and  trials,  when  prop- 
erly received  and  enjoyed,  are  a  sort  of  good  to  them  who 
are  exercised  thereby.  On  this  principle,  such  neighbors 
are  to  be  endured,  perhaps  prized  as  blessings  in  dis- 
guise. Yet  they  would  find  it  much  more  for  their  own 
comfort  to  provide  things  honest  for  themselves,  and  cul- 
tivate such  habits  of  domestic  economy  as  would  prevent 
the  necessity  of  their  taxing  the  faith  and  patience  of  the 
saints  who  dwell  near  unto  them. 

To  return  to  our  books.  Book-keeping  is  a  science  ex- 
tensively cultivated  by  borrowers,  and  there  is  probably 
less  conscience  on  this  subject  than  on  umbrellas.  He 
who  borrows  the  latter  may  feel  that  the  owner  is  ex- 
posed without  shelter  to  the  pitiless  pelting  of  a  storm, 
and  such  feelings  may  lead  to  penitence  and  restitution. 
But  no  such  salutary  meditation  disturbs  the  calm  seren- 
ity of  the  wretch  who  has  borrowed  his  friend's  book. 
He  knew  that  his  friend  had  read  the  book,  and  there- 
fore he  pretends  to  himself  that  it  can  not  be  wanted 
again.  He  reads  it  without  remorse.  And  when  he  has 
read  it,  he  beholds  it  from  time  to  time  standing  in  broad 


ON    LYING   AND    LENDING.  267 

daylight  before  him,  a  silent  witness  against  him,  but  no 
sense  of  guilt  steals  on  his  senses ;  no  thought  of  regret 
for  his  own  wrong,  nor  pity  for  his  despoiled  friend  stirs 
the  deeps  of  his  depraved  heart.  Hardened  by  long 
indulgence  in  this  course  of  evil-doing,  he  has  been  lost 
to  all  the  gentler  considerations  of  propriety,  friendship, 
honesty,  and  honor  •  until,  from  being  a  borrower,  he  has 
come  to  be  a  thief,  and  thinks  it  no  ill. 

A  clergyman  of  my  acquaintance  was  asked  if  he  had 
read  a  new  and  valuable  publication,  and  on  his  saying 
that  he  had  not,  the  loan  of  it  was  at  once  offered  to  him. 
He  declined  it,  with  the  remark  that  he  did  not  read  any 
books  which  he  could  not  buy.  Of  course,  he  would  not 
decline  the  aid  of  public  libraries,  where  books  are  lent 
for  hire,  and  every  subscriber  is  part  owner ;  but  he  would 
not  get  his  knowledge  from  borrowed  books,  nor  sponge 
upon  his  friends. 

Broken  sets  of  books  stand  as  memorials  of  my  un- 
trustworthy friends.  In  an  hour  of  weakness  I  permitted 
the  books  to  go  from  the  shelves,  and  the  places  that 
knew  them  once  know  them  no  more.  It  would  be  grate- 
ful to  my  lacerated  feelings  if  the  borrowers  would  return 
and  take  away  the  remains  of  the  sets,  or  restore  the  miss- 
ing volumes  to  the  empty  space. 

It  is  not  possible  to  ask  a  man  to  return  borrowed 
goods — books,  money,  or  any  thing  else — without  putting 
in  peril  the  beautiful  friendship  on  the  strength  of  which 
he  fleeced  you.  He  was  a  wise  man  who  said  to  his 
friend  wishing  to  borrow :  "  You  and  I  are  now  good 
friends — if  I  lend  you  money  and  you  do  not  pay  it,  we 
shall  quarrel ;  if  I  refuse  to  lend  you,  I  suppose  we  shall 
quarrel :  there  are  two  chances  of  a  quarrel,  and  I  think 
I  will  keep  the  money,  rather  than  run  the  risk  of  losing 
it  and  you." 


268  UNDER   THE    TREES. 

He  had  in  mind  the  old  saw : 

"I  had  my  money  and  my  friend, 
I  lent  my  money  to  my  friend ; 
I  asked  my  money  of  my  friend, 
I  lost  my  money  and  my  friend." 

"  The  borrower  is  servant  to  the  lender,"  saith  the  Bi- 
ble. That  is  so  when  the  borrower  has  made  himself  li- 
able to  the  law,  so  that  the  lender  can  put  the  screws 
upon  him  when  he  does  not  come  to  time.  But  in  all 
the  petty  concerns  of  neighborhood  life,  especially  in  the 
rural  districts,  it  is  the  lender  who  is  the  servant  of  the 
borrower.  The  inveterate  beggar  is  not  so  great  a  pest, 
because  you  can  give  him  what  he  demands,  and  he  is 
off.  But  the  borrower  lives  near  and  on  you.  Nothing 
you  have  is  too  good  for  him  to  ask  for.  Things  you 
prize  the  most,  which  you  use  only  on  rare  occasions,  and 
then  with  extremest  care — sacred  in  associations,  or  deli- 
cate, and  therefore  precious — the  borrower  asks  the  loan 
of  without  scruple,  and  uses  without  fear,  with  the  feeling 
that,  if  injured,  he  is  not  the  loser,  for  happily  it  was  bor- 
rowed. There  is  a  beauty  in  good  neighborhood.  That 
help-one-another  spirit  which  prompts  to  constant  recip- 
rocal kindness  makes  life  in  the  country,  among  neigh- 
bors, charming.  But  when  it  is  like  the  handle  of  a  pitch- 
er, all  on  one  side,  this  borrowing  becomes  a  nuisance  to 
be  abated  by  general  agreement  among  the  oppressed. 


XXIII. 

LITTLE   TRIALS. 

It  has  been  often  said  that  it  is  harder  to  bear  little 
trials  than  great  ones,  and  many  persons  make  the  re- 
mark as  if  it  were  an  excuse  for  being  vexed  at  trifles,  or 
for  making  trifles  into  mountains.  Of  all  possible  troubles 
in  this  world,  perhaps  no  one  source  is  more  full  of  trial 
to  the  temper  and  the  patience  of  mankind  than  disa- 
greeable weather.  It  would  certainly  disturb  the  peace- 
ful equanimity  of  soul  which  is  this  moment  enjoyed  in 
this  old  arm-chair  if  the  wind  should  shift  .around  to 
the  east,  as  it  did  last  week,  and  another  cold  storm 
should  set  in,  and  set  down.  It  kept  me  in-doors  for  two 
days ;  and  when  I  came  out  here  to  have  a  little  pen- 
chat  under  the  trees,  the  seat  of  the  chair  was  a  pool  of 
water,  and  the  trees  themselves  shed  drops  of  grief,  as  if 
they  were  mourning  in  their  solitude ;  and  the  ground 
was  so  damp  that  it  was  unsafe  to  be  a  man  of  letters 
out-of-doors,  and  I  was  obliged  to  give  it  up.  And  even 
then  and  there,  or  else  by  an  open  window,  the  change  of 
air  with  the  cold  northeast  wind  might  give  one  a  touch 
of  that  most  deplorable  of  all  the  isms  that  infest  the 
state — the  rheumatism — a  trial  to  the  faith  and  patience 
that  may  fairly  claim  to  be  equal  to  any  other  of  which 
flesh  is  heir. 

John  Wesley  was  visiting  a  very  wealthy  gentleman, 
who  was  greatly  annoyed  by  a  servant  leaving  the  door 


270  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

open,  and  he  said  to  his  guest,  "  You  see  what  annoy- 
ances I  am  compelled  to  endure."  Mr.  Wesley  took  the 
occasion  to  preach  him  a  little  sermon  on  the  duty  of 
being  patient  under  such  trifling  vexations  of  spirit, 
when  he  was  surrounded  with  all  the  good  things  that 
heart  could  desire.  And  it  is  not  likely  that  the  posses- 
sion of  good  things,  by  the  thousand  even,  tends  to  make 
one  patient  under  the  infliction  of  a  petty  grievance. 
Rather  it  tends  to  create  the  feeling  that  money,  or  what 
money  buys,  ought  to  purchase  exemption  from  the  little 
troubles  that  are  the  necessary  lot  of  the  poor.  "  It  is  a 
great  pity  that  I  can  not  be  comfortable,"  says  the  man 
of  wealth  and  ease,  "with  all  these  servants  about  me, 
and  this  great  house,  and  all  this  furniture."  And  the 
woman  who  flatters  herself  that  a  costly  establishment, 
with  a  retinue  of  men  and  maids,  will  keep  her  from  little 
trials,  will  find  herself  so  sadly  mistaken  that  she  will 
often  sigh  for  a  cottage  of  three  rooms  in  which  perhaps 
she  began  her  married  life. 

And  these  little  trials,  among  the  rich  and  the  poor 
alike,  are  for  the  most  part  imaginary,  or  at  most  so  near- 
ly ideal  that  they  are  not  worthy  of  being  fretted  at  by  an 
intelligent  man  or  woman.  Who  has  not  seen  a  full- 
grown  man,  of  average  sense  and  fair  reputation  for 
virtue,  out  of  humor  because  his  dinner  was  not  ready 
when  he  was,  or  not  cooked  to  his  taste  when  it  was 
served?  He  could  meet  with  the  loss  of  a  thousand 
dollars,  and  not  speak  of  it  at  home ;  he  could  bear  that 
in  silence,  with  patience  and  serenity;  but  to  be  com- 
pelled to  wait  half  an  hour  for  a  rail-train  or  his  dinner 
would  throw  him  off  his  balance,  and  provoke  him  to  use 
such  impatient  words  as  hardly  become  a  man  of  average 
self-control.     His  wife  is  a  notable  housekeeper,  with  an 


LITTLE   TRIALS.  271 

awful  eye  for  dirt,  and  she  can  put  up  with  any  thing  if 
the  house  is  only  clean.  But  a  few  specks  on  the  win- 
dows or  an  undusted  parlor  will  put  her  into  fits,  that 
nothing  but  cold  water  and  rubbing — not  of  her,  but  of 
the  windows  and  furniture — will  cure. 

Indeed,  it  is  not  unusual  to  see  good  people  more  dis- 
turbed by  the  little  vexations  of  life  than  they  are  by  real 
trials,  such  as  come  home  to  their  hearts,  and  might 
reasonably  be  supposed  to  overwhelm  them  with  sorrow. 
The  reason  of  this  inconsistency  may  be  that  the  little 
trial  is  so  insignificant  itself  that  one  scarcely  thinks  of 
calling  in  grace  or  philosophy  to  help  in  bearing  it.  In- 
stead of  resisting,  the  soul  worries  and  frets  till  the 
trouble  irritates  and  wounds  and  festers,  and  then  breeds 
others.  Seven  evil  spirits  come  home  with  the  first,  and 
the  house  is  turned  upside  down  by  the  fretfulness  of  the 
soul  now  under  the  power  of  the  evil  one. 

If  we  had  a  higher  sense  of  the  greatness  of  our  pres- 
ent comforts,  and  a  deeper  sense  of  our  unworthiness  to 
have  them,  we  would  be  less  disposed  to  repine  when  we 
suffer  for  a  time  the  loss  of  some  of  them.  He  was  wise 
who,  when  he  had  the  toothache,  was  thankful  that  he  had 
not  a  broken  leg ;  and  when  the  leg  was  broken,  that  it 
was  not  his  neck.  And  if  we  compare  our  enjoyments 
with  our  trials,  and  take  the  balance  as  the  sum  that  we 
have  a  right  to  make  the  most  of,  we  shall  discover  that 
there  is  no  reason  in  the  world  for  being  discontented 
with  our  lot.  More  than  this,  it  is  the  testimony  of  Infi- 
nite Wisdom,  confirmed,  if  confirmation  is  wanted,  by  the 
experience  of  all  good  men  who  have  left  their  experience 
on  record,  that  little  trials  and  great  trials  are  means  to 
ends,  and  those  ends  are  the  greatest  and  best  in  the 
moral  universe.     When   the   young   eagles   in  the  nest 


272  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

where  they  were  hatched  have  grown  to  be  too  large  for 
it,  however  much  they  may  love  to  stay  in  it  and  be  fed 
by  indulgent  parents,  the  old  eagle  stirs  them  up  and 
crowds  them  out,  and  compels  them  to  do  their  duty  in 
the  sphere  to  which  eagles  are  called.  It  will  not  be 
permitted  to  any  one  who  has  work  to  do,  to  dwell  at  ease 
in  his  nest  and  be  fed  all  the  time ;  to  take  comfort,  as 
we  call  it,  forgetful  of  the  duties  of  life  and  the  calls  of  a 
world  suffering  around  us.  These  little  trials  are  to  stir 
us  up,  and  drive  us  out  of  ourselves.  We  would  not  mind 
them  at  all  if  we  had  our  eyes  and  hearts  on  the  great 
business  for  which  we  were  put  into  this  garden. 

And  nearly  all  these  little  crosses  and  vexations  which 
we  dignify  by  the  name  of  trials,  are  not  worth  speaking 
of,  and  to-morrow  they  are  quite  forgotten,  though  to-day 
they  seem  to  be  intolerable. 


XXIV. 

TALKING  TO  MAN  AND  BEAST. 

Had  I  my  life  to  live  over  again — how  often  we  say  or 
think  these  words,  and  it  were  well  if  they  lead  us  to  put 
what  remains  of  life  to  better  use — I  would,  with  God's 
good  help,  never  speak  a  harsh  word  to  man  or  beast. 

I  have  been  in  state -prisons,  and  studied  the  system 
and  practical  workings  of  the  theories  of  various  overseers 
and  governors ;  and  in  reformatories  and  asylums,  and 
houses  of  refuge  and  penitentiaries  and  jails,  and  also  in 
Christian  families  and  boarding-schools ;  and  in  all  of 
them  have  earnestly,  candidly,  and  anxiously  sought  to 
learn  the  best  way  to  make  men  better;  and  the  result  of 
all  this  observation  and  study  is  that  no  good  and  only 
evil  come  of  harsh  speaking. 

The  other  extreme,  the  milk-and-water  system,  cod- 
dling the  wicked  to  make  them  good,  coaxing  a  villain  to 
induce  him  to  be  a  saint,  giving  a  child  candy  to  stop 
crying,  or  hiring  him  to  do  what  he  ought  to  be  required 
to  do — this  or  the  like  of  this  is  just  as  far  from  the  right 
way  of  dealing  with  the  wayward  and  refractory. 

Children  are  not  fools  generally,  and  convicts  are  usu- 
ally smart.  They  who  are  under  parental  government,  or 
in  the  hands  of  the  law,  undergoing  the  penalty  of  crime, 
very  soon  get  to  know  the  measure  of  those  who  are  over 
them,  and  act  accordingly.  They  see  the  inconsistency 
and  folly  of  the  sugar  system,  and  learn  to  despise  those 

S 


2  74  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

who  try  it  on.  Bribing  or  coaxing  people  to  be  good 
makes  them  worse,  for  they  are  only  corrupted  by  the 
gifts  or  promise,  and  when  the  motive  is  not  repeated 
they  are  less  than  ever  disposed  to  do  what  is  required. 

What  set  me  upon  this  train  of  thought  was  a  letter 
calling  my  attention  to  the  late  killing  of  his  keeper  by  a 
boy  in  the  House  of  Refuge,  and  I  was  asked  to  make 
some  inquiries  into  the  system  of  discipline  in  that  and 
similar  institutions,  as  one  of  the  most  important  depart- 
ments of  philanthropic  effort.  But  I  do  not  know  that 
the  desperate  act  of  a  bad  boy,  or  the  murder  of  his  keep- 
er by  a  convict  in  a  state -prison,  would  show  any  thing 
respecting  the  general  discipline  of  the  establishment. 
It  is  not  unknown  that  children  have  murdered  their  par- 
ents, and  where  there  are  hundreds  of  men  or  boys  to- 
gether, all  of  whom  are  collected  because  they  are  bad, 
there  must  be  among  them  some  so  bad  as  to  defy  the  in- 
fluences that  have  restrained  or  changed  others. 

The  best  man,  or  the  one  who  has  just  now  the  highest 
and  best  reputation  as  a  prison  manager,  believes  in  pun- 
ishing prisoners  —  in  making  them  feel  that  they  are  in 
prison  not  only  to  be  reformed,  but  to  suffer  a  penalty 
for  crime.  He  mingles  firmness,  justice,  and  kindness  in 
such  proportions  as  to  give  him  great  power  over  the  con- 
vict, and  real  success  in  promoting  his  reformation. 

A  wise  governor  of  a  prison  or  a  school  or  a  family 
never  scolds,  never  speaks  a  harsh  or  hasty  word.  In- 
deed, the  first  requisite  to  the  successful  government  of 
others  is  self-government.  And  no  one  expends  words 
upon  others  in  tones  of  impatience  or  severity  until  he 
has  lost  command  of  himself. 

Rarey,  the  horse-tamer,  gave  us  lessons  in  the  art  of 
reforming  vicious  beasts.     I  saw  him  subdue  a  horse  of 


TALKING   TO    MAN    AND    BEAST.  275 

whom  it  would  have  been  said  the  day  before  that  "  no' 
man  could  tame  him."  But  there  was  almost  magic  in  the 
art  and  science  that  rendered  the  fiery  and  fractious,  the 
biting  and  kicking  beast,  as  gentle  as  a  lamb.  He  did 
not  speak  harshly  to  him,  nor  did  he  inflict  blows.  But 
he  mastered  him,  l^eld  him,  fettered  him,  and,  by  firm- 
ness and  gentleness  combined,  subdued  his  will.  The 
same  treatment  certainly  ought  to  be  better  for  animals 
with  reason  than  animals  without  it.  It  is  a  question 
that  is  yet  unsettled  whether  such  animals  as  dogs  and 
horses  reason.  They  have  some  faculty  so  near  to  rea- 
son that  they  can  be  reasoned  with.  They  learn  also  to 
understand  words,  so  that  they  can  be  talked  to  to  some 
purpose.  They  certainly  have  feelings,  and  far  deeper 
than  their  hides.  They  notice  our  neglect  and  are  hurt 
by  it,  as  a  human  friend  is.  They  rejoice  in  our  kind- 
ness as  one  does  whom  we  love;  and  because  they  are 
unable  by  words  to  tell  us  how  they  suffer,  or  to  make 
excuse  for  the  wrong  they  do  and  for  which  we  punish 
them,  it  is  our  duty  to  be  very  tender  and  considerate  in 
our  treatment  of  them.  No  good  man  would  do  wrong 
to  a  dog  or  a  horse  any  more  than  to  a  child,  without  be- 
ing sorry  for  it.  I  have  profound  respect  for  Mr.  Bergh, 
who  has  done  so  much  to  prevent  cruelty  to  animals. 
He  deserves  an  equestrian  statue  in  the  Central  Park.  It 
should  stand  at  the  principal  entrance.  If  the  proposal 
were  made  to  the  horses,  there  would  not  be  a  nay  among 
them. 

But  I  would  not  put  up  a  statue  to  the  pigeon-shooting 
men ;  they  need  to  feel  the  force  of  statutes  made  and 
provided  for  such  cases  as  theirs.  Among  them  I  see 
men  whose  names  are  respected  in  political  and  financial 
circles.     It  may  be  that  these  words  from  one  so  far  re- 


276  UNDER   THE    TREES. 

moved  from  such  circles  as  I  am  may  reach  them,  and 
convey  to  them  some  faint  impression  of  the  regret  and 
indignation  they  excite  when  for  sport  they  shoot  birds. 
It  is  small  business  any  way,  if  that  may  be  called  small 
which  involves  the  suffering  and  the  life  of  any  creature. 
And  I  would  like  to  have  sporting  gentlemen  reminded 
that  as  a  sparrow  does  not  fall  to  the  ground  without  the 
notice  of  the  Infinite  Majesty,  so  it  is  quite  certain  that 
when  a  pigeon,  wounded,  bleeding,  and  gasping,  lies  quiv- 
ering before  them,  the  good  God  is  not  pleased  with  the 
sacrifice,  and  will  charge  the  murder  to  their  account. 
Cowper  would  not  keep  on  his  list  of  friends  the  man  who 
needlessly  set  foot  upon  a  worm,  and  I  do  not  care  to  be 
on  terms  with  one  who  wantonly  hurts  a  bird. 


XXV. 

LOVING  AND  DOING. 

When  Dr.  Franklin  was  American  Minister  to  France, 
and  residing  at  Passy,  a  small  village  near  Paris,  he  wrote 
a  letter  to  Dr.  Mather,  in  which  he  said  : 

"  When  I  was  a  boy,  I  met  with  a  book  by  your  father, 
entitled, '  Essays  to  do  Good.'  It  had  been  so  little  re- 
garded by  its  former  possessor  that  several  leaves  of  it 
were  torn  out,  but  the  remainder  gave  me  such  a  turn  of 
thinking  as  to  have  an  influence  on  my  conduct  through 
life,  for  I  have  always  set  a  greater  value  on  the  charac- 
ter of  a  doer  of  good  than  on  any  other  kind  of  reputation ; 
and  if  I  have  been,  as  you  seem  to  think,  a  useful  citizen, 
the  public  owes  the  advantage  of  it  to  that  book." 

To  one  who  has  only  the  amelioration  of  the  present  or 
temporal  condition  of  his  fellow-men  in  view,  the  life  of 
Franklin  is  a  beautiful  example  of  what  one  man  may  do 
who  gives  his  life  to  humane,  philanthropic,  and  judicious 
essays  to  do  good.  If  Mather's  "  Essay  "  were  the  inspira- 
tion of  Franklin,  you  see  what  the  little  book  did  ;  and  if 
Mather  made  Franklin  a  philanthropist,  you  may  be  en- 
couraged to  be  like  the  one  or  the  other,  or  both.  Frank- 
lin made  no  pretensions  to  Christian  motives  of  action. 
Whitefield  was  coming  to  Philadelphia  when  Franklin 
resided  there,  and  Dr.  F.  wrote  to  W.  and  invited  him  to 
be  his  guest  during  his  stay.  The  great  preacher  wrote, 
accepting  his  invitation  with  thanks,  and  added  :  "  If  you 


278  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

do  this  for  Christ's  sake,  you  will  not  lose  your  reward." 
Franklin  replied  immediately  that  "he  wished  it  to  be 
distinctly  understood  that  it  was  done  for  Mr.  Whitefield's 
sake." 

Franklin  loved  his  fellow-men,  there  is  no  doubt  of 
that ;  and  lived,  of  course,  to  do  them  good. 

Among  the  mountains  of  Switzerland,  in  a  secluded  vil- 
lage of  the  Canton  of  Appenzell,  I  made  the  acquaintance 
of  a  philanthropist,  who  was  using  a  large  fortune,  and  all 
his  time  and  strength,  in  doing  good  to  others.  Like  his 
Master,  he  went  about  doing  good.  He  had  asylums  and 
hospitals  and  schools  and  shops  sustained  by  his  money, 
and  over  which  he  kept  personal  watch,  going  from  door 
to  door,  and  seeing  that  every  thing  was  done  as  it  should 
be.  He  was  a  walking  benediction,  a  peripatetic  joy. 
Little  children  left  their  play  when  they  saw  him  passing 
by,  ran  up  and  put  their  hands  into  his,  and  returned  to 
their  sport.  He  lived  to  do  good.  And  he  told  me  that 
it  was  not  of  himself  at  all :  that  some  unseen  agency  im- 
pelled him  to  do  all  this,  and  over  the  doors  of  some  of 
his  homes  for  the  suffering  he  had  placed  inscriptions 
giving  the  praise  to  Him  who  had  put  him  up  to  it. 

In  New  York  there  is  a  good  man  dwelling,  whom  to 
know  is  a  great  blessing ;  to  be  able  to  call  him  your 
friend  would  be  an  honor.  He  was  once  in  the  Moravian 
connection.  Now  he  is  a  minister  of  the  Episcopal 
Church.  For  some  years  he  was  the  rector  of  a  free 
church,  and  it  was  thronged  whenever  it  was  open  by 
multitudes  eager  to  be  led  by  him  in  the  worship  and 
service  of  God.  By -and -by  he  founded  and  built  St. 
Luke's  Hospital,  and  went  into,  it  to  live  among  the  pa- 
tients, to  be  their  pastor  and  comforter,  day  and  night 
and  always.     For  many  years  he  has  dwelt  there,  married 


LOVING   AND   DOING.  279 

only  to  Christ  and  his  work,  doing  good,  and  in  that  only 
finding  his  joy,  or  if  not  joy  —  for  it  is  of  no  moment 
whether  one  have  joy  here  or  not — finding  his  good  in 
doing  good,  and  so  getting  out  of  life  the  best  that  life  can 
yield.  He  has  realized  another  of  his  many  schemes  for 
the  comfort  of  others,  in  laying  out  a  tract  of  five  hundred 
acres  in  an  adjacent  county,  where  he  has  a  retreat  for 
the  aged  poor  and  invalids  and  orphans ;  and  a  home  for 
the  homeless,  who  find  rest  and  peace  in  St.  Johnland. 
Some  years  ago,  he — that  is,  Dr.  Muhlenberg — wrote  a 
hymn  which  millions  have  sung,  beginning — 

"I  would  not  live  alway, 
I  ask  not  to  stay  ; 
Where  storm  after  storm 
Rises  dark  o'er  the  way." 

He  is  known  to  the  world  better  by  that  hymn  than 
by  his  philanthropic  and  Christian  work,  but  his  work  is 
more  characteristic  of  him  than  the  hymn.  I  have  no 
doubt  Job  was  honest  when  he  said,  "  I  would  not  live 
alway,"  but  he  said  it  under  great  trials  and  disappoint- 
ments. And  he  who  has  the  joy  of  seeing  that  his  labors 
are  prospered  to  the  blessedness  of  others,  so  that  he  is 
able  to  say  as  Job  could  say  before  his  calamities,  "  The 
blessing  of  him  that  was  ready  to  perish  came  upon  me ; 
and  I  caused  the  widow's  heart  to  sing  for  joy:  I  put  on 
righteousness,  and  it  clothed  me  ;  my  judgment  was  as,  a 
robe  and  a  diadem :  I  was  eyes  to  the  blind,  and  feet  was 
I  to  the  lame :  I  was  a  father  to  the  poor ;  and  the  cause 
which  I  knew  not,  I  searched  out"  —  he  may  well  be 
content  to  "stay"  just  as  long  as  the  good  Lord  is  pleased 
to  keep  him  here,  and  give  him  work  to  do.  Indeed,  the 
place  we  are  in  is  our  place,  and  all  we  have  to  do  is  to 
make  the  most  and  best  of  it  for  the  good  of  those  near 


280  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

us,  and  those  to  whom  we  can  send  the  good  we  can  not 
give  with  our  hands. 

The  most  thoroughly  self-sacrificing  man  I  ever  saw 
was  Dr.  Guggenbuhl,  in  his  school  for  idiots,  away  up  on 
a  mountain  near  Interlaken.  It  nearly  made  me  sick  to 
see  the  Cretins  around  him.  He  was  a  gentleman  of 
culture  and  learning  and  skill  and  fortune.  He  might 
have  had  his  place  at  the  head  of  his  profession  in  any 
city.  But  he  was  in  the  woods  and  among  idiots,  only  to 
do  good.  He  died  in  the  service.  It  was  a  life  beauti- 
ful in  its  devotion,  and  he  had  his  reward.  But  he  did 
not  set  the  reward  before  him  as  the  end,  the  motive.  He 
loved  to  do  good,  and  the  reward  came  of  necessity. 

Pastor  Heldring  went  to  Hohenderlo,  a  miserable  wil- 
derness of  a  place,  full  of  thieves  and  robbers,  and  he  set 
about  doing  them  good.  They  had  to  go  a  long  distance 
to  get  a  drop  of  fresh  water,  for  it  had  been  found  impos- 
sible to  dig  a  well,  and  the  good  man  worked  till  he  over- 
came all  difficulties  ;  and  when  he  had  caused  a  spring  to 
spring  up  there,  he  soon  had  a  school  and  a  church,  and 
by-and-by  the  wilderness  blossomed  as  the  rose.  You 
may  not  teach  idiots,  or  dig  wells  in  a  desert,  or  found 
asylums,  or  write  hymns ;  but  you  are  called  to  do  good. 
There  is  a  little  world  in  which  you  dwell,  and  its  name 
is  the  sweetest  word  perhaps  of  all.  Its  name  is  home. 
You  may  do  a  world  of  good  in  that  little  world.  It  is 
the  easiest  thing  imaginable  to  do  good.  You  may  do  it 
with  words  or  without  words.  You  may  do  it  by  cheer- 
ful looks  and  kind,  gentle  ways ;  by  keeping  your  lips 
closed  when  an  impatient,  fault-finding  expression  is  ready 
to  escape ;  by  cheering  those  about  you  with  perpetual 
loving  words  and  little  deeds  of  kindness,  not  worth  men- 
tioningrbut  worth  more  than  rubies  to  the  heart  that  feels 


LOVING   AND   DOING.  28 1 

their  infinite  power.  And  then  all  about  you  is  this  wide 
world,  full  of  sore  places  for  you  to  heal,  dark  places  for 
you  to  lighten,  rough  places  for  you  to  smooth,  sad  places 
for  you  to  cheer,  wicked  places  for  you  to  fill  with  the 
saving  love  of  the  dear  Lord. 

When  Jesus  became  man,  he  made  the  whole  human 
race  his  brethren,  as  we  are  brethren.  And  when  he 
came  unto  his  own,  his  own  received  him  not.  In  that 
wonderful  drama,  drawn  out  in  tKe  twenty-fifth  chapter 
of  Matthew,  and  which  has  never  had  half  the  power  and 
importance  in  the  Church  and  in  theology  to  which  it  is 
entitled,  the  great  Teacher  has  given  an  outline  of  the 
Christian  system.  The  moral  grandeur  of  the  scene  is 
unsurpassed  in  the  facts  of  history  or  the  realms  of  poetry. 
In  all  the  conditions  there  stated  by  the  Judge  in  his 
awards,  sympathy  shown  to  those  in  distress  is  the  chief 
if  not  the  only  ground  on  which  he  pronounces  the  word 
"  come  "  or  "  go."  "  I  was  in  prison,"  he  says,  "  and  ye 
came  unto  me."  Was  he  there  in  the  person  of  some 
saint  unjustly  seized  and  shut  up  among  thieves?  Or 
did  he  intimate  that  the  wicked — criminals,  convicts,  out- 
casts— they  who  have  broken  the  laws  of  God  and  man, 
and  were  justly  suffering  the  punishment  of  their  crimes, 
were  objects  of  Christian  kindness,  persons  to  be  visited 
in  their  cells  with  the  words  and  deeds  of  divine  compas- 
sion and  holy  love  ?  And  when  he  put  himself  between 
the  wicked  woman  and  the  men  who  were  disposed  to  be 
hard  upon  her  as  a  grievous  sinner  whom  their  law  would 
not  suffer  to  live,  he  gave  them  a  lesson  never  to  be  for- 
gotten by  men  or  women,  that  chajrity  to  the  wicked,  even 
the  vilest  of  the  wicked — for  there  is  no  vileness  in  the 
world  more  vile  than  such  sin  as  this  woman  sipned — 


282  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

that  charity  even  to  such  as  she,  is  the  outflow  of  the 
spirit  of  him  whose  lips,  dropping  the  sweetness  of  heaven, 
said,  "Go  and  sin  no  more."  And  the  whole  science 
of  Christian  duty  is  set  forth  and  illustrated  and  proved 
in  those  few  sentences  of  the  mountain  discourse,  when 
the  Saviour  says :  "  Love  your  enemies,  bless  them  that 
curse  you,  do  good  to  them  that  hate  you,  and  pray  for 
them  which  despitefully  use  you ;  that  ye  may  be  the 
children  of  your  Father  which  is  in  heaven  :  for  he  mak- 
eth  his  sun  to  rise  on  the  evil  and  on  the  good,  and  send- 
eth  rain  on  the  just  and  on  the  unjust.  For  if  ye  love 
them  which  love  you,  what  reward  have  ye  ?  do  not  even 
the  publicans  the  same  ?" 

Then  comes  the  concluding,  clinching,  and  exhaustive 
command,  "  Be  ye  therefore  perfect,  even  as  your  Father 
which  is  in  heaven  is  perfect."  Look  closely  into  the 
philosophy  and  the  religion  of  those  passages  from  the 
best  of  all  sermons. 

And  when  he  came  to  die  !  He  had  lived  among  sin- 
ners ;  he  had  done  works  of  mercy  for  sinners ;  he  had 
been  reproached  for  living  so  much  among  them  ;  and 
when  he  came  to  die,  what  then  ?  He  was  hung  between 
two  thieves.  Wondrous  combination  of  facts,  to  make  the 
death  of  the  Saviour  harmonious  with  his  life.  They  who 
did  it,  meant  it  not  so.  They  would  crown  his  death  with 
ignominy,  and  so  they  crucified  him — and  between  two 
thieves.  He  came  from  glory  to  save  sinners.  He  lived 
among  them  ;  ministered  unto  them.  He  loved  the  lost, 
and  sought  them  in  their  sins.  And  when  he  died  in 
shame,  he  had  a  sinner,  a  thief — the  one  on  his  right 
hand  and  the  other  on  his  left,  and  Jesus  in  the  midst. 

Now  when  you  think  of  the  way  in  which  our  Lord 
lived  and  died,  and  when  you  are  longing  to  be  like  him, 


LOVING   AND   DOING.  283 

and  to  be  perfect  as  your  Father  is  perfect,  you  will  try 
to  do  good  ;  present  good,  temporal  good — to  sinners,  to 
the  wicked,  to  "  cursing  mothers  and  drunken  fathers ;" 
and  to  that  class  of  sinners  from  whom  the  most  of 
Christ's  people,  and  especially  Christian  women,  turn 
away  with  mingled  hate  and  scorn. 

To  do  good  for  the  sake  of  the  reward  may  be  the 
zenith  of  self-worship.  But  there  is  no  merit  in  doing 
good  to  those  who  pay  us  by  their  love  and  gratitude  for 
what  we  do.  To  make  a  widow's  heart  sing  for  joy  may 
be  done  in  such  a  way  as  to  make  your  own  heart  sing 
louder.  And  you  surely  do  not  expect  any  higher  re- 
ward. The  sweetest  of  all  earthly  pleasures  is  to  be  the 
minister  of  gladness  to  the  sick  or  the  wounded  or  the 
poor,  who  are  themselves  gentle  and  good  and  grateful. 
They  praise  you,  and  tell  you  what  an  angel  you  are,  and 
you  half  believe  them,  and  it  makes  you  feel  very  happy. 
It  is  the  cheapest  way  in  the  world  to  get  a  cheerful  glow 
all  over  your  heart.  You  are  not  much  more  like  your 
Father,  who  is  perfect,  for  having  done  the  good  deed.  It 
was  well.  But  nothing  very  great.  It  was  nothing  to 
speak  of,  and  when  you  gave  your  dollar  or  ten  to  the 
female  benevolent  society,  which  hires  good  women  to  go 
about  with  baskets  of  charity,  you  did  a  good  thing,  but  it 
was  of  no  great  account  in  the  sight  of  him  who  poured 
out  his  blood  for  you. 

Go  yourself.  Take  the  basket  on  your  own  arm.  Visit 
the  cellar,  damp  and  dirty ;  climb  the  rickety  garret  stairs 
yourself,  and  with  your  own  hands  and  pleasant  words 
dispense  the  gifts  of  food,  clothing,  medicine,  and  care. 


XXVI. 

THE  NEGLECTED  GRAVEYARD. 

Riding  out  into  the  country  some  eight  or  ten  miles 
yesterday  (and  these  days  are  superb  for  driving  over  the 
hills  and  along  the  valleys),  I  came  by  an  ancient  and 
apparently  forgotten  graveyard.  It  was  so  far  from  the 
sight  of  the  living,  that  the  thought  was  natural,  "the 
people  are  all  here."  But  somebody  must  have  buried 
them ;  and  I  soon  discovered  that  it  was  only  a  mile  or 
two  from  the  village,  and  the  whole  country  side  was 
densely  populated  with  the  living,  many  of  them  doubt- 
less the  relatives  and  friends  of  the  dwellers  in  this  si- 
lent land.  But  what  affected  me  the  most  strangely  and 
sadly  was  the  utter  neglect  and  desolation  that  reigned 
among  these  tombs.  It  was  easy  to  step  over  the  stone 
wall,  and  I  picked  my  way  around  and  among  the  grave- 
stones, some  of  them  lying  on  the  ground,  others  ready  to 
fall,  and  most  of  them  so  hidden  by  weeds  and  bushes  that 
it  was  hard  to  read  the  inscriptions,  or  to  find  the  name 
they  were  set  up  to  commemorate.  Yet  on  many  of  those 
that  I  succeeded  in  reaching  and  reading  were  words  of 
affection;  lines  that  told  me  how  tenderly  once  were 
loved  the  ashes  that  are  now  lying  here  unnoticed  and 
perhaps  unknown.  On  some  of  the  old  headstones  the 
dates  could  be  made  out  that  went  away  back  to  the  days 
of  our  Revolution,  and  it  is  very  likely  that  in  this  chang- 
ing world  of  ours,  and  very  changing  country,  there  is  no 


THE   NEGLECTED   GRAVEYARD.  285 

one  now  living  here  who  has  the  blood  or  the  memory 
of  these  ancients  in  his  heart.  But  here  are  inscriptions 
that  have  been  made  within  the  last  twenty  or  thirty 
years,  and  they  too  seem  to  have  been  made  by  hands 
that  are  now  cold,  or  to  have  been  prompted  by  hearts 
that  have  forgotten. 

It  helps  to  humble  us  to  take  a  walk  in  a  neglected 
graveyard.  We  think  that  we  are  of  some  value  to  our 
friends,  and  they  would  grieve  much  if  we  were  taken 
away.  And  we  think  rightly.  But  how  very  soon  after 
the  grave  closes  over  us  is  the  place  where  we  sleep  suf- 
fered to  pass  into  oblivion !  Perhaps  a  stone  with  a 
record  of  their  estimate  of  our  worth  is  set  up  ;  but  even 
that  is  suffered  to  be  overgrown  with  weeds,  or  to  fall  to 
the  ground  as  we  fell  but  a  few  years  before.  When  a 
stone  is  thrown  into  a  lake  it  makes  a  great  commotion 
for  a  moment,  but  very  soon  the  water  is  as  placid  as  if 
its  surface  had  not  been  disturbed  at  all.  And  when  a 
great  man  dies,  or  one  who  was  greatly  beloved  in  the 
circle  of  his  acquaintance,  the  heart  of  the  community  is 
stirred  :  we  talk  of  the  whole  people  being  in  tears.  But 
a  few  months  only  and  all  is  as  if  nothing  had  happened; 
and  in  a  few  years  his  name  is  rarely  mentioned.  His 
grave  is  neglected.  The  places  that  knew  him,  know  him 
no  more.  It  wall  be  just  so  with  us.  We  can  not  tell 
where  we  shall  be  buried;  and  a  few  years  after  we  are 
buried  how  very  few  in  all  the  world  will  know  or  care 
where  we  are  sleeping !  It  is  not  very  grateful  to  our 
pride  to  take  this  view  of  our  future ;  but  if  we  may  judge 
by  what  we  see  here  and  every  where,  this  oblivion  awaits 
the  most  of  us. 

It  is  a  mark  of  low  civilization  that  the  country  grave- 
yard is  a  forlorn  and  neglected  place.     Religion  and  re- 


286  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

finement  would  both  encourage  us  to  guard  it  from  the 
intrusion  of  beasts,  and  also  to  make  it  attractive,  that 
the  living  may  be  led  to  come  and  meditate  among  its 
tombs.  There  is  an  excess  even  of  floral  ornament  that 
tends  to  destroy  the  proper  effect.  I  have  seen  cemeter- 
ies that  were  rather  places  of  entertainment  for  the  living 
than  fitting  homes  for  the  dead.  This  is  the  tendency 
in  rural  cemeteries  near  the  city,  the  resort  of  visitors 
who  go  to  see  how  death  can  be  cheated  of  its  terrors, 
and  his  field  of  triumph  made  a  holiday  spectacle.  Yet 
even  these  groves  and  drives  and  lakes  and  bridges  and 
flowers  innumerable  and  glaring  monuments,  costly  whited 
sepulchres,  are  more  becoming  than  this  desert  desola- 
tion that  reigns  in  many  country  church-yards,  and  those 
not  a  hundred  miles  from  the  city. 

They  should  have  walks  laid  out  between  the  rows  of 
graves,  and  monthly  roses  ought  to  be  planted  on  either 
side,  with  here  and  there  a  weeping-willow,  and  the  cy- 
press or  pine — evergreens  are  emblems  of  immortality, 
and  monthly  roses  speak  of  the  Resurrection.  Then  it 
is  well  to  keep  the  grass  closely  cut,  and  the  weeds  out  al- 
together, for  they  are  as  much  in  the  way  in  this  garden 
of  the  Lord,  where  he  watches  the  dust  of  his  saints,  as 
they  can  be  among  the  vegetables.  Up  in  old  Cam- 
bridge, the  graveyard  was  close  by  the  "Old  White 
Meeting-house,"  and  on  the  Sabbath-day,  during  the  in- 
termission, it  was  common  for  the  people — men,  women, 
and  children — to  walk  among  the  graves,  families  gather- 
ing around  their  own  dead,  and  conversing  with  their 
neighbors  of  the  departed.  It  was  even  in  childhood  an 
offense  to  me  that  Mr.  Beebe  would  let  his  sheep  run  in  the 
graveyard,  but  I  was  told  he  did  so  to  keep  the  grass  down. 

On  the  continent  of  Europe  and  in  England  the  rural 


THE  NEGLECTED  GRAVEYARD.  287 

graveyards  are  better  cared  for  than  with  us.  I  wandered 
into  them  in  many  countries,  particularly  in  Wales,  Ger- 
many, and  Switzerland,  and  I  do  not  recollect  of  seeing 
them  any  where  so  utterly  neglected  as  some  are  here 
in  Westchester  County,  in  the  focus  of  American  civil- 
ization, wealth,  and  culture. 

We  do  not  have  the  yew-tree  here  as  in  England. 
There  they  grow  to  a  great  size,  as  in  Stoke,  where  Gray 
lies  buried  in  the  country  church-yard.  That  was  the 
scene  and  theme  of  his  elegy — a  poem  that  has  furnished 
more  lines  that  have  become  familiar  to  mankind  than 
any  other  poem  of  equal  length.     The  third  stanza  is — 

"Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's  shade, 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  mouldering  heap, 
Each  in  his  narrow  cell  forever  laid, 

The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep." 

The  sixth  stanza  is  very  fine : 

"  For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn, 
No  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care, 
No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 
Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share." 

The  last  line  of  the  ninth  verse  is  often  quoted  : 

"  The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power, 

And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave, 
Await  alike  th'  inevitable  hour : 
The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave." 

And  as  I  was  walking  recently  in  that  desolate  rural 
field  of  graves,  another  stanza  of  this  elegy  seemed  very 
appropriate  : 

"  Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire ; 
Hands  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  swayed, 
Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre." 


288  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

And  then  follows  the  most  familiar  verse,  quoted  oft- 
ener  than  any  other  : 

"  Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene 

The  dark,  unfathomed  caves  of  ocean  bear ; 
Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air." 

In  that  country  church-yard  which  Gray  calls  a  "  neg- 
lected spot,"  the  poet  was  buried  by  the  side  of  Jiis  moth- 
er, to  whom  he  had  erected  a  monument  there.  But  the 
quiet  beauty  of  that  long,  low  church  in  the  midst  of  those 
graves  has  lingered  with  me  these  ten  years  or  more,  and 
the  signs  of  neglect,  if  there  were  any,  have  been  for- 


XXVII. 

WHENCE  COMFORT  COMES. 

In  the  gray  of  the  cold  winter  morning,  the  earth  cov- 
ered with  its  winding-sheet  of  snow,  I  was  standing  on 
the  front  step,  and  a  solitary  hearse  came  through  the 
lane  from  my  nearest  neighbor's  house,  and  passed  the 
door.  It  was  the  saddest  sight  that  had  yet  darkened 
my  view.  I  knew  what  it  was  bearing  away :  the  lifeless 
form  of  a  lovely  girl  who,  but  a  few  days  ago,  was  the  life 
and  joy  of  our  little  neighborhood.  Taking  cold,  she  was 
suddenly  thrown  into  a  fever,  and  now,  after  a  week's 
sickness,  was  dead.  Of  all  the  children  around  us,  she 
was  the  one  who  bid  the  fairest  to  live.  Full  of  health 
and  spirits,  rosy  and  buoyant,  she  was  the  pride  and  sun- 
shine of  home  and  friends.  She  was  as  good  as  she  was 
beautiful.  Seeing  her  almost  daily,  we  had  never  seen  or 
heard  what  we  wished  otherwise.  It  is  rare,  indeed,  that 
we  can  say  so  much  as  that,  even  of  our  own  children,  to 
whose  faults  parents  are  often  blind.  Yet  this  dear  child, 
so  fondly  loved  at  home  that  the  love  of  others  is  not  to 
be  thought  of,  was  now  dead. 

The  hearse  was  taking  her  away,  and,  joining  the  smit- 
ten household,  we  followed  with  the  remains  to  the  city, 
and  to  the  house  of  God  where  the  burial-service  was 
read,  and  then  to  Greenwood,  where  we  laid  her  down 
beneath  the  snow  and  the  winter  clods,  till  the  spring- 
time  of  the    Resurrection,   when   she   shall   rise   again 

T 


290 


UNDER   THE   TREES. 


with  angelic  beauty,  and  clothed  with  garments  of  im- 
mortality. 

Now  I  do  not  know  what  there  is  outside  of  the  Gospel 
of  Christ  to  sustain  and  comfort  a  bleeding  heart  in  such 
a  sorrow  as  this.  To  our  unaided  reason,  the  blow  that 
crushes  parental  hopes  by  such  a  sudden  and  appalling 
affliction  is  terrible  and  cruel.  And  why  is  a  child  per- 
mitted to  live  and  develop  into  lovely  girlhood,  and  win 
the  affection  of  friends,  and  taste  the  joys  of  young  life 
that  knows  no  care,  and  look  out  on  the  future  with  every 
prospect  of  giving  and  receiving  pleasure  with  increasing 
enjoyment  as  years  increase,  to  be  thus  early  blighted, 
smitten,  slain,  buried,  lost,  gone  forever  from  our  arms  and 
sight  and  hearing,  laid  in  the  earth,  to  be  enjoyed,  to  en- 
joy no  more  ? 

If  there  be  no  truth  in  the  doctrine  of  our  holy  religion, 
this  event  is  simply  a-horrible  disaster,  against  which  rea- 
son revolts,  and  philosophy  furnishes  no  antidote.  But 
the  Gospel  comes  with  a  voice  of  tender  consolation,  and 
gives  the  sweet  assurance  that  even  such  a  sorrow  is  not 
without  its  own  strong  relief.  Much  of  what  has  been 
said  in  sermons  and  books  by  way  of  consolation  to  the 
afflicted  is  drawn  more  from  reason  than  from  Scripture, 
and  therefore  fails  to  satisfy  the  aching  heart  of  sorrow. 
The  peace  of  God  flows  into  the  soul  only  by  his  Spirit 
through  the  Word  of  truth.  All  that  teaching  which  mag- 
nifies the  blessedness  of  the  departed,  and  would  persuade 
us  to  be  content  because  the  one  we  love  is  better  off  than 
here,  is  well  enough  for  those  who  can  not  take  higher  and 
broader  views*  of  the  wonderful  works  of  Him  who  doeth 
all  things  according  to  the  counsel  of  his  own  will,  and 
therefore  must  do  them  all  well.  It  is  a  source  of  com- 
fort to  a  mourning  mother  to  follow  with  the  eye  of  faith 


WHENCE    COMFORT   COMES.  29I 

her  buried  babe,  as  it  rises  into  the  form  of  an  infant  an- 
gel, and  enters  upon  the  praises  of  the  heavenly  state — 
a  redeemed  and  holy  child  among  the  redeemed  and  holy. 
But  this  is  only  the  comfort  of  compensation.  There  is 
higher  and  better  solace  than  this  in  the  doctrine  of  the 
good  Word.  And  when  the  hand  of  God  presses  us 
heavily — takes  away  our  treasures,  health,  wealth,  friends 
— strips  us  of  all  that  we  love  in  life — puts  bitterness  into 
the  cup  we  are  most  fond  of  drinking — spreads  a  pall  over 
the  nursery,  and  hangs  the  fireside  with  black,  and  makes 
the  house  solitary  and  cold  and  dreary,  that  was  last  week 
vocal  with  songs  and  shouts  of  young  gladness  and  health, 
and  turns  all  our  joy  into  mourning,  our  beauty  to  ashes, 
and  our  home  light  to  darkness — then  comes  the  message 
of  the  Gospel  to  the  stricken  soul,  with  its  words  of  heal- 
ing, saving  power.  Afflictions  come  from  the  love  of  our 
Father  in  heaven.  He  pitieth  us.  He  remembereth  our 
frame.  He  is  kind  in  his  dealings  and  infinite  in  his  wis- 
dom, knowing  what  is  best  for  us  and  his  kingdom.  What 
we  know  not  now,  we  shall  know  hereafter.  It  is  good  to 
be  afflicted.  We  are  to  be  made  perfect  through  suffer- 
ing. He  does  with  us  as  with  children  whom  he  loves. 
And  this  affliction  will  work  out  glory.  I  hear  that  sweet 
voice,  which  gave  words  to  a  soul  of  infinite  tenderness, 
saying,  "  Let  not  your  heart  be  troubled. "  I  do  not  feel 
ashamed  to  weep,  for  my  Lord  and  Pattern,  my  Priest  and 
King,  once  stood  by  the  side  of  a  grave  in  a  country  vil- 
lage, and  there  wept  over  a  friend  that  he  loved.  And  so 
because  he  wept,  I  will  weep  also  when  death  takes  away 
those  whom  my  soul  loves.  And  because  he  said,  in  the 
midst  of  mortal  agony,  "  Not  my  will  but  thine  be  done," 
therefore  will  I  bow  down  under  the  weight  of  the  heavi- 
est load  that  he  in  his  holy  wisdom  and  mercy  lays  upon 


292  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

me,  and  sinking  into  the  great  depths  of  human  woe,  I 
will  cry,  "  Even  so,  Master  and  Saviour,  not  as  I  will,  but 
as  thou  wilt." 

To  believe  in  God  is  to  get  the  victory  over  death — our 
own  or  of  those  dear  to  us.  It  is  not  Christ-like  nor 
Christian,  it  is  sinful  and  worse,  to  give  way  to  unbelief,  to 
repining,  or  to  unconsoled  grief.  One  joy  is  gone,  but 
other  joys  remain.  Duty  to  the  dead  is  no  longer  re- 
quired, but  duty  to  the  living  is  increased.  As  our  grief 
was  the  greatest,  so  our  comfort  in  believing  was  through 
grace  the  greatest,  that  we  might  be  the  minister  of  con- 
solation to  those  around  us  in  the  same  sorrow. 

"  Oh,  let  my  trembling  soul  be  still, 

While  darkness  veils  this  mortal  eye, 

And  wait  thy  wise,  thy  holy  will, 
Wrapped  yet  in  tears  and  mystery. 

I  can  not,  Lord,  thy  purpose  see ; 

Yet  all  is  well,  since  ruled  by  thee. 

'Thus  trusting  in  thy  love,  I  tread 
The  narrow  path  of  duty  on ; 
What  though  some  cherished  joys  are  fled  ? 

What  though  some  flattering  dreams  are  gone  ? 
Yet  purer,  brighter  joys  remain: 
Why  should  my  spirit  then  complain?" 

An  aged  minister,  under  the  snows  of  more  than  sev- 
enty winters,  having  just  buried  the  wife  of  his  youth, 
wrote  to  me  in  his  sorrow.  One  of  the  strangest  but  not 
the  most  thankless  of  the  works  to  which  we  are  often 
called  is  the  ministry  of  consolation.  But  the  poorest  of 
all  comforts  in  sorrow  is  human  sympathy.  It  seems  a 
sacrilege  and  offense  to  say  so ;  yet  what  can  it  do  to 
mitigate  grief  or  bring  back  joy  to  a  desolate  spirit  ?  Still 
we  love  it,  and  seek  it,  and  find  it,  and  weep  on.  I  wrote 
to  the  weary  and  smitten  old  pilgrim  words  like  these : 


WHENCE   COMFORT   COMES.  293 

"  Were  you  young  and  thus  bereaved,  I  would  find  oth- 
er consolations  than  such  as  I  bring  you  now.  The  days 
of  your  years  are  so  far  spent  that,  in  the  ordinary  course 
of  things,  it  will  not  be  long  ere  you  are  again  with  her  to 
renew  your  youth,  immortal  in  union  and  love.  It  is, 
therefore,  of  no  great  moment  whether  you  suffer  or  not, 
for  at  most  it  can  not  be  very  long,  and  then  your  joy 
will  be  forever. 

"  And  if  you  have  already  attained  to  some  good  de- 
gree of  union  with  God  by  love,  so  that  you  have  learned 
to  live  for  others  more  than  yourself,  you  have  thanked 
him  several  times,  since  your  wife's  departure,  that  you 
were  permitted  to  live  until  her  life  on  earth  was  finished. 
It  was  meet  that  she  should  die  first.  She  leaned  upon 
you  even  when  you  trembled  with  age.  It  is  sad  to  be 
left  alone  in  this  world,  all  the  friends  of  one's  youth  long 
since  fallen  asleep,  and  then  at  last  the  companion  of 
half  a  century — whose  arm  has  been  a  support,  whose 
bosom  a  pillow,  whose  smile  dearer  than  the  sun,  whose 
voice  the  sweetest  music,  and  whose  love  a  life-long  joy — 
to  pass  away.  It  were  better  that  she  should  go  before 
you  than  for  her  to  be  thus  left  alone. 

"  And  now  the  memory  of  a  lifetime,  like  a  meadow 
stream,  flows  along  through  your  soul,  with  sweet,  bright 
flowers  on  either  bank :  the  sunny  days,  when  you  whis- 
pered softly  in  her  ear  the  old,  old  story,  and  won  her  for 
your  bride.  Often  in  the  daytime  these  scenes  recur 
with  tender  beauty  to  the  eye  of  your  spirit ;  but  mostly 
when  the  shades  of  twilight  gather,  and  you  sit,  slippered 
and  gowned,  for  a  solitary  evening  by  your  one-sided 
hearthstone,  then 

" '  Fond  memory  brings  the  light 
Of  <5ther  days  around  thee,' 


294  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

and  you  revel  in  the  recollections  of  youth  and  life 
and  love,  long  time  ago.  Now  you  know  how  better 
far  it  is  to  have  loved  and  lost,  than  not  to  have  loved 
at  all. 

"  And  that  leads  me  to  observe  it  is  only  in  a  very  re- 
stricted sense  we  can  say  that  we  have  lost  our  departed 
friends.  Thirty-six  years  ago  a  friend,  who  had  just  been 
bereaved  as  you  are  now,  asked  me  for  a  single  line  to 
put  on  the  tombstone  of  his  wife.     I  gave  him — 

'"not  lost,  but  gone  before.' 

supposing  it  was  original ;  but  long  before  that  time  the 
poet  Rogers  had  said  it  in  lines  that  just  meet  your  pres- 
ent want : 

"'Those  that  he  loved  so  long  and  sees  no. more, 
Loved  and  still  loves — not  dead — but  gone  before, 
He  gathers  round  him.' 

And  on  the  tombstone  of  Mary  Angell,  at  Stepney,  En- 
gland, who  died  in  1694,  the  very  line  is  written  which  I 
gave  to  my  friend  as  an  original  in  1838.  He  put  it  upon 
a  slab  which  still  stands  in  the  church-yard  at  Fishkill  on 
the  Hudson  River ;  and  he  who  placed  it  there  has  since 
been  laid  by  the  side  of  her  who  had  '  gone  before ;'  and 
he  has  found,  in  the  glad  life  beyond  the  grave,  that  his 
wife's  epitaph  is  true.  The  same  enjoyment  waits  on 
you  in  that  other  state. 

"  A  very  thin  partition,  a  veil  almost  transparent,  sepa- 
rates you  from  her.  It  is  a  divine  and  wise  arrangement 
that  in  the  body  our  intercourse  with  human  souls  shall 
be  through  our  senses  only ;  and  this  makes  the  veil  im- 
penetrable, separating  us  from  those  gone  before.  They 
can  not  speak  to  us,  nor  we  to  them.  But  they  may  be 
near  us  always,  and  in  ways  unknown,  may  be  our  minis- 


WHENCE    COMFORT   COMES.  295 

ters.     Never  mind  how  it  is.     Sufficient  for  us  that  they 
are  blessed,  and  we 

"  '  Soon  their  blessedness  shall  see.' 

"  For  if  they  sleep  in  Jesus,  they  shall  awake  in  him ;  and 
we,  being  in  God  by  love,  and  one  with  them  and  him  by 
love,  shall  be  one  with  each  other  when  those  who  sleep 
in  Jesus  are  brought  with  him.  Blessed  are  the  dead 
who  die  in  the  Lord.  The  early  Christians  had  a  deeper 
consciousness  of  this  union  than  we  have.  The  epitaphs 
on  the  tombs  in  the  Catacombs  of  Rome,  and  the  inscrip- 
tions on  the  old  memorial  marbles  dug  up  from  the  re- 
pose of  eighteen  centuries,  tell  us  that  they  had  peace  un- 
speakable in  the  thought  that  saints  die  in  the  Lord,  rest 
in  him,  sleep  in  Jesus,  are  by  death  born  into  new  life 
with  God. 

" '  We  a  little  longer  wait, 
But  how  little,  none  can  tell.' 

"Be  patient,  and  tarry  till  the  Master  calleth  for  thee. 
All  the  days  of  my  appointed  time  will  I  wait  until  my 
change  come.  This  is  the  fruit  you  are  to  bring  forth  in 
old  age.  The  out-of-door  work  of  life  is  for  the  younger, 
who  are  strong.  Yours  is  to  set  an  example  of  cheerful 
content,  in  the  day  when  those  who  look  out  of  the  win- 
dows are  darkened  and  all  the  daughters  of  music  are 
brought  low.  Be  not  like  the  bird  that  beats  her  breast 
against  the  bars  of  her  cage  and  pants  to  be  free.  But 
like  one  who  sits  all  day  long  and  sings,  glad  to  go,  yet 
content  to  stay.  And  when  the  door  is  opened,  step  out 
and  fly  away.  The  bride  of  thy  youth,  in  whiter  vest- 
ments than  she  wore  on  the  day  of  her  espousal,  waits 
for  thee.  Infant  voices  cry, '  Come,  father,  come.'  And 
He  whose  smile  lights  the  universe  with  love,  greets  thee 


296  UNDER   THE    TREES. 

on  the  threshold  of  glory  with  those  words  (Oh,  God ! 
that  we  might  hear  them  now) :  '  Enter  thou  into  the  joy 
of  thy  Lord.'" 

The  cup  that  Jesus  took  from  the  hand  of  his  Father 
was  one  of  sorrow.  This  expression — the  cup — is  often 
used  in  the  Sacred  Writings  for  that  which  the  cup  con- 
tains. It  may  be  of  thanksgiving,  of  salvation,  of  joy,  or 
of  sorrow.  It  is  even  used  to  hold  the  displeasure  of  the 
Father,  whose  wrath  is  sent  upon  the  children  of  diso- 
bedience. This  is  the  bitterest  cup.  It  is  often  de- 
served. But  we  are  not  always,  nor  often,  to  infer  that 
the  cup  of  sorrow  is  given  to  us  because  the  Giver  is  an- 
gry. It  may  be  in  great  pity,  with  infinite  tenderness, 
and  with  a  view  to  our  highest  good.  Now  no  chasten- 
ing is  for  the  present  joyous.  The  cup  comes  from  the 
Father.  The  judge  in  Eastern  countries  and  ancient 
times  condemned  the  criminal  to  drink  the  poisoned 
draught — a  mode  of  punishment,  of  execution — and  the 
condemned  took  the  cup  and  drank  it,  and  perished.  But 
what  father,  if  his  son  asked  bread,  would  give  him  a  ser- 
pent ?  or  water,  and  would  give  him  poison  ?  If  my  Fa- 
ther give  me  the  cup,  I  know  it  is  not  the  hemlock  of 
which  Socrates  drank  and  died.  It  may  be  a  very  bitter 
cup.  Medicine  is  not  always  pleasing  to  the  taste.  But 
it  may  be  very  important  that  you  take  it,  nevertheless. 
And  if  my  Father  tell  me  it  is  better  for  me  to  drink  it, 
bitter  as  it  may  be,  my  confidence  in  him  is  perfect,  and 
I  will  drink  it  to  the  last  drop  in  the  cup.  You  have 
seen  children  do  so  a  hundred  times.  And  you  have 
seen  them  rebellious,  and  refuse  to  take  it,  and  fight 
against  it,  and  sometimes  they  must  be  held  firmly  and 
actually  made  to  drink  the  unpalatable  draught.     It  does 


WHENCE    COMEORT   COMES.  297 

not  do  them  half  as  much  good  as  it  would  if  they  re- 
ceived it  willingly  and  drank  it  cheerfully.  And  I  have 
found  it  just  so  with  every  cup  of  sorrow  that  my  Father 
has  put  to  my  lips.  If  I  resisted,  and  refused  to  admit 
that  there  was  any  need  of  it,  and  felt  offended  that  it 
was  pressed  upon  me,  insisting  that  I  knew  what  was 
good  for  me,  and  did  not  require  the  proffered  medicine, 
and  would  be  actually  better  off  without  it — the  cup  was 
forced  upon  me  by  the  higher  will  of  my  Father,  and  not 
until  my  will  was  subdued,  and  the  cup  received  as  a 
good  child  receives  it,  was  it  good  for  me  to  be  afflicted. 
Then,  in  the  dust  and  depths,  with  a  crushed  and  melted 
heart,  have  I  felt  the  infinite  love  of  the  Father,  who  does 
not  willingly  afflict,  who  never  lays  upon  us  more  than  we 
are  able  to  bear,  who  is  himself  afflicted  in  all  our  afflic- 
tion, who  bore  our  sorrows,  who  became  a  man  of  sor- 
rows, who  knows  every  one  of  our  griefs  because  he  took 
upon  him  our  nature,  and  therefore  knows  just  what  to 
put  into  the  cup ;  and  he  will  not  add  a  drop  of  bitter 
more  than  his  unfathomable  pity  knows  that  we  should 
drink. 

I  know  that  the  cup  comes  from  his  hand  to  mine  ;  and 
he  is  not  only  my  Father,  but  my  Heavenly  Father; 
therefore  too  wise  to  err,  too  good  to  be  unkind ;  infinite 
in  his  wisdom,  goodness,  and  truth.  And  oh  !  so  tender, 
so  loving,  so  full  of  all  compassion  ;  he  holds  worlds  in 
his  hand,  but  he  would  not  suffer  a  hair  to  fall  from  the 
head  of  one  of  his  little  ones  unnumbered.  His  tender 
mercies  are  over  all  his  works.  If  one  we  love  is  sick, 
with  what  gentle  care  we  minister  to  every  want;  how 
tenderly  we  lift  from  the  pillow  the  fevered  head,  and 
hold  the  cup  with  cooling  draught  to  the  parched  lips  we 
have  so  often  kissed.     Like  as  a  father  pitieth  his  chil- 


298  UNDER   THE    TREES. 

dren,  so  the  Lord  pities  us,  his  poor,  weak,  sick,  suffering 
little  ones.  He  holds  our  aching  heads,  heals  our  bleed- 
ing hearts,  leadeth  us  into  green  pastures  by  still  waters, 
and  (blessed  be  his  name)  restoreth  our  souls. 

And  shall  I  not  drink  it?  The  cup  that  my  Father 
hath  given  me !  It  is  he  who  has  raised  up  my  head 
from  this  hot  pillow ;  I  feel  his  soft  hand  upholding  me  ; 
my  lips  touch  the  cup,  but  his  hand  is  putting  it  there, 
and  I  hear  his  voice  speaking  soft  and  low  into  my  soul, 
and  saying :  "  Fear  not,  for  I  am  with  thee ;  be  not  dis- 
mayed, for  I  am  thy  God." 

Yes,  I  will  drink  it,  all  of  it.  For  as  oft  as  I  drink  of 
this  cup,  I  take  the  draught  that  my  Father  gives,  and 
drink  of  the  cup  from  which  my  Saviour  drank.  His 
was  a  cup  of  agony  unspeakable.  It  was  a  cup  of  blood. 
I  do  not  wonder  he  prayed — "  If  it  be  possible,  let  this 
cup  pass  from  me."  He  did  not  love  the  taste.  His 
soul  was  exceeding  sorrowful.  But  he  drank  it  all.  What 
a  privilege  to  drink  out  of  the  same  cup  with  him !  To 
be  baptized  with  his  baptism.  To  be  a  partaker  of  his 
sufferings.  And  if  we  suffer  with  him,  we  shall  also  reign 
with  him. 

Give  me,  then,  the  cup,  my  Father ;  hold  it  to  my  lips 
till  I  have  drank  so  much  as  thy  will  directs.  The  cup 
that  my  Father  hath  given  me,  shall  I  not  drink  it  ? 


XXVIII. 

MY  FIRST  AND  LAST  GREAT  SERMON. 

I  had  never  preached  in  Princeton.  Often  invited,  it 
was  easy  to  make  an  excuse,  while  the  real  one  was  the 
reluctance,  not  unusual  with  young  preachers,  to  appear 
as  a  teacher  of  teachers.  To  preach  in  Princeton  in- 
volved the  necessity  of  being  heard  by  the  venerable  and 
learned  professors  in  the  theological  seminary  and  col- 
lege, and  the  still  more  critical  audience  of  embryo  divines 
and  philosophers  in  those  institutions.  But  in  the  year 
1849,  being  Secretary  of  the  American  Bible  Society,  I 
was  requested  to  visit  Princeton  and  "present  the  cause." 
As  this  was  in  the  line  of  duty,  I  made  the  engagement 
at  once,  and  commenced  the  preparation  of  a  "great 
sermon." 

Taking  the  best  one  of  several  discourses  already  pre- 
pared on  the  special  topic,  I  determined  to  load  it  with 
all  the  lore  within  reach,  and  to  astonish  the  scholars  of 
Princeton  by  my  familiarity  with  the  original  Scriptures. 
My  text  and  introduction  were  in  these  or  similar  words  : 

"The  19th  Psalm,  4th  verse  :  'Their  line  is  gone  out 
through  all  the  earth,  and  their  words  to  the  end  of  the 
world.' 

"  Beautiful  as  this  passage  is  in  our  translation,  it  is  far 
from  giving  the  force  and  grandeur  of  the  original. 

"  If  you  consult  the  marginal  reading,  you  will  see  that 
the  word  here  rendered  line  is  a  rule  or  direction. 


3°° 


UNDER   THE   TREES. 


"  If  you  turn  to  the  Septuagint,  you  will  find  that  the 
word  is  sound:  their  voice  has  gone  out,"  etc. 

"  But  go  to  the  original  Hebrew,  in  which  this  poem 
was  written,  and  there  the  word  line  is  a  string,  a  cord,  a 
harpstring,  and  the  idea  is  that  the  heavens  are  a  great 
harp,  the  cord  of  which  is  stretched  from  sky  to  sky, 
making  music  to  celebrate  the  glory  of  God." 

With  this  introduction,  and  a  discourse  to  match,  I  went 
to  Princeton,  taking  no  other  sermon  with  me,  but  armed 
with  a  serene  consciousness  that  my  first  effort  there 
would  not  be  altogether  unworthy  of  the  place  and  oc- 
casion. The  Rev.  Dr.  Schenck  was  pastor  of  the  church, 
then,  as  now,  a  valued  friend.  With  him  I  lodged,  and  as 
we  were  conversing  upon  the  subject,  I  asked  him  to  take 
down  his  Hebrew  Bible  and  Septuagint,  and  listen  to  the 
introduction  of  my  sermon.  He  heard  it,  expressed  his 
satisfaction,  and  kindly  admitted  that  he  had  not  com- 
pared the  readings  before.  It  was  arranged  that  the  Rev. 
Dr.  James  W.  Alexander,  then  in  the  noonday  splendor 
of  his  rhetorical  power,  should  preach  in  the  morning, 
and  all  the  congregations  and  institutions  should  be 
assembled  in  the  evening,  when  the  Secretary  should 
"present  the  cause." 

I  modestly  declined  to  go  into  the  pulpit.  Dr.  Alex- 
ander, after  an  invocation,  announced  to  be  sung  the 
19th  Psalm,  first  part.  I  said  to  myself,  "I  intended  to 
sing  that."  Then  he  read  as  the  morning  lesson  the 
19th  Psalm.  I  began  to  be  anxious,  as  I  expected  to 
read  that.  Then  he  gave  for  the  second  singing,  19th 
Psalm,  second  part.  My  anxiety  now  suggested  perspi- 
ration. With  intense  suspense  I  waited  a  few  minutes, 
and  the  eloquent  doctor  rose  for  the  sermon  and  thus 
began  : 


MY    FIRST   AND    LAST   GREAT    SERMON.  301 

"The  19th  Psalm,  4th  verse:  ' Their  line  is  gone  out 
through  all  the  earth/  "  etc. 

"  Beautiful  as  this  passage  is  in  the  vernacular,  it  is  far 
below  the  grandeur  of  the  original.  In  the  margin  you 
will  observe  that  the  word  here  rendered  line  is  rule  or 
direction.  In  the  Septuagint  it  is  sound — and  their  voice 
is  gone  forth.  But  in  the  original  Hebrew  the  word  line 
is  a  string,  a  cord,  a  harpstring,  and  the  figure  of  the  in- 
spired poet  is  that  the  heavens  are  a  great  harp,  swept  by 
the  hand  of  the  Almighty  and  celebrating  his  praise." 

And  then,  with  a  wealth  of  illustration,  fertility  of  im- 
agination, depth  and  extent  of  learning,  in  the  blaze  of 
which  my  poor  little  bantling  wilted  and  perished,  he  went 
on  to  celebrate  the  excellences  of  the  Scriptures,  their 
majesty,  variety,  wisdom,  power,  and  glory,  and  all  this 
with  an  ease  that  showed  what  he  was  saying  to  be  only 
the  efflorescence  of  his  knowledge,  whose  fruit  and  root 
and  richness  were  scarcely  called  into  use  to  make  this 
magnificent  discourse.  Fancy  my  feeling's  when  I  heard 
every  thing  I  had  thought  worth  saying  a  thousand  times 
better  said,  and  on  the  top  of  it  all  such  profusion  of 
learning  and  copious  streams  of  eloquence  that  my  la- 
bored dissertation  appeared  tame  and  insipid.  At  last, 
to  my  great  relief,  he  stopped. 

Before  he  left  the  pulpit,  Dr.  Schenck  said  to  him  : 
"  You  have  used  up  the  Secretary." 

"  Why,  what  do  you  mean  by  that  ?" 

"He  read  to  me  this  morning  the  introduction  to  his 
sermon  for  the  evening,  and  you  have  preached  it." 

Dr.  A.  came  down  from  the  pulpit,  and  taking  me  by 
the  hand,  his  fine  face  hiding  and  revealing  a  quizzical 
smile,  he  said,  "  You  did  not  put  all  your  eggs  into  one 
basket,  did  you  ?" 


302  UNDER   THE    TREES. 

"  Yes,  I  did,"  said  I  with  a  groan,  "  and  you  have  put 
your  foot  into  it." 

Yes,  he  had.  My  "great"  sermon  had  proved  to  be  a 
small  one,  and  of  course,  great  or  small,  was  not  available 
for  the  evening.  What  did  I  do?  It's  of  very  little  mo- 
ment what  I  did,  but  I  took  the  lesson  severely  to  heart, 
was  punished  and  mortified.  In  the  evening  the  house 
was  thronged  in  every  part.  The  divinity  students  in  one 
gallery,  the  collegians  in  the  other,  all  the  faculties  of 
both  institutions,  pastors  and  people  were  before  me — the 
most  intellectual  audience  I  had  ever  addressed.  I  "pre- 
sented the  cause  "  as  well  as  I  could. 

That  was  my  first  and  last  "great  sermon."  And  I 
didn't  preach  that.  The  lesson  needs  no  enforcement, 
but  young  preachers  will  easily  see  the  moral  of  it. 

Some  seven  years  before  that  adventure  I  was  wander- 
ing in  New  England  in  a  summer  vacation.  On  Satur- 
day afternoon  I  stopped  at  Andover,  Mass.,  where  I  did 
not  know  a  person.  A  country  inn  received  me,  and 
soon  the  Rev.  Bela  B.  Edwards,  D.D.,  found  me,  and  with 
gentle  force  drew  me  to  his  house,  where  I  spent  one  of 
the  most  delicious  Sabbaths  that  earth  ever  yielded  to 
me,  or  will.  What  peace,  what  grace,  what  chaste  refine- 
ment in  that  home.  Mrs.  Edwards  was  the  fitting  com- 
plement of  that  accomplished  man. 

In  morning  worship  he  used  the  Hebrew  Bible,  and 
read  the  19th  Psalm,  translating  as  he  read.  In  the  4th 
verse  he  said,  "Their  cord  has  gone  out." 

"What's  that?"  I  said.     "That  is  new  to  me." 

He  read  again — "  Their  cord,  string,  harpstring  ;"  and 
then  we  pursued  the  word  through  various  languages,  and 
I  went  away  the  next  day  wiser  than  I  came. 

The  learning  which  I  had  picked  up  so  casually  at 


MY    FIRST   AND    LAST    GREAT   SERMON.  303 

Andover  I  attempted  seven  years  afterward  to  discharge 
upon  Princeton  ;  but,  alas !  they  knew  it  all  before  I 
arrived. 

How  charming  the  memories  of  those  men  whose 
friendship  and  love  are  more  precious  than  gold  or  ru- 
bies. Heaven  has  them  now,  but  we  will  walk  and  talk 
with  them  yet  again  by  the  river  side.  We  shall  know 
more  than  books  can  teach  us ;  and  when  we  sing  the 
new  song,  the  harps  of  the  stars  will  be  silent,  but  the 
melody  will  be  sweeter,  and  the  music  the  voices  of  angels 
only,  and  the  ransomed  of  the  Lord. 

"  Oh,  may  I  bear  some  humble  part 
In  that  immortal  song ; 
Wonder  and  love  shall  tune  my  heart, 
And  joy  command  my  tongue." 


XXIX. 

THE  LAST  DAY  OF  SUMMER. 

I  can  not  imagine  any  thing  in  nature  more  lovely 
than  the  scene  that  lies  around  and  above  me.  It  is  a 
warm  day — very  warm.  Out  in  the  sunshine  it  is  hot, 
and  in  the  city  it  is  an  oppressive  day.  But  I  will  tell 
you  how  the  land  lies  about  the  trees  under  which  I  am 
writing,  and  you  shall  then  have  some  idea  of  what  a 
summer  has  just  closed. 

Last  year  I  built  a  rustic  sofa:  built  it  with  my  own 
hands,  to  the  profound  astonishment  of  friends  who  had 
given  me  no  credit  for  hammer-and-saw  skill,  and  were 
quite  unwilling  to  believe  that  I  could  get  up  a  fancy  set- 
tee of  this  sort.  But  here  it  stands  the  second  season,  as 
good  as  new,  and  likely  to  do  duty  many  more  ;  and  I  am 
stretched  on  this  seat,  with  pencil  and  paper,  a  strong 
south  wind  moving  among  the  trees  that  hang  over  me  in 
thick  shadow,  the  atmosphere  fragrant  with  flowers  that 
skirt  the  hedge  rows,  and  the  river  glistening  through  the 
leaves  like  a  crystal  sea,  while  the  trees  and  shrubbery, 
the  grass  and  vines,  washed  clean  with  the  late  rains, 
seem  to  laugh  in  their  beauty,  looking  so  fresh  and  sweet 
as  if  this  were  nature's  holiday,  and  every  leaf  and  blade 
and  shrub  and  plant  were  on  a  frolic,  to  be  glad  while 
they  may. 

A  friend  near  me  this  morning  had  remarked,  "  Noth- 
ing but  heaven  can  be  more  beautiful ;"  and  the  thought 


THE   LAST    DAY    OF    SUMMER.  305 

carried  me  away  to  the  glory  of  an  everlasting  summer 
— the  life-time  day  in  heaven  ;  and  I  have  been  thinking 
while  lying  here  of  the  scene  that  must  break  upon  the 
eye  when  it  first  opens  in  the  celestial  paradise. 

"There,  on  a  high,  majestic  throne, 

The  Almighty  Father  reigns, 
And  sheds  his  glorious  goodness  down 

On  all  the  blissful  plains. 
Bright  like  the  sun  the  Saviour  sits, 

And  spreads  eternal  noon; 
No  evenings  there,  nor  gloomy  nights, 

To  want  the  feeble  moon. 
Amid  those  ever-shining  skies, 

Behold  the  sacred  dove ; 
While  banished  sin  and  sorrow  flies 

From  all  the  realms  of  love." 

I  love  this  present  world ;  God  has  made  it  all  good — 

"  Oh  earth !   thy  splendor  and  thy  beauty  how  amazing ; 
Whene'er,  anew,  I  turn  to  thee  intently  gazing, 
With  rapture  I  exclaim,  How  beautiful  thou  art, 
How  beautiful !" 

Then  I  look  away  from  it  and  cry  out,  so  that  the  birds 
in  the  'branches  overhead  pause  in  their  songs  to  listen 
while  I  sing : 

"  Oh,  if  now  so  great  the  glory 

In  the  heavens  and  earth  we  see, 
What  delight  and  joy  forever, 
Near  His  throne  and  heart  to  be !" 

And  then,  changing  the  metre  and  the  tune  to  one 
more  stately  but  not  less  jubilant,  when  an  oriole  had 
finished  his  song,  I  began  again : 

"Descend  from  heaven,  immortal  Dove  ! 
Stoop  down  and  take  us  on  thy  wings, 
And  mount  and  bear  us  far  above 
The  reach  of  these  inferior  things : 

u 


306  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

Beyond,  beyond  this  lower  sky, 

Up  where  eternal  ages  roll, 

Where  solid  pleasures  never  die, 

And  fruits  immortal  feast  the  soul. 

Oh  for  a  sight,  a  pleasing  sight, 

Of  our  Almighty  Father's  throne  ! 

There  sits  our  Saviour,  crowned  with  light, 

Clothed  in  a  body  like  our  own ; 

Adoring  saints  around  him  stand, 

And  thrones  and  powers  before  him  fall : 

The  God  shines  gracious  through  the  man, 

And  sheds  sweet  glories  on  them  all. 

Oh !   what  amazing  joys  they  feel, 

While  to  their  golden  harps  they  sing, 

And  sit  on  every  heavenly  hill, 

And  spread  the  triumphs  of  their  King !" 

We  form  our  conceptions  of  the  heavenly  world  from 
the  descriptions  of  it  briefly  given  in  the  Revelation,  and 
by  combining  all  the  ideas  of  beauty  which  earth  affords 
to  aid  us.  The  old  poets,  more  indeed  than  the  modern, 
delighted  in  the  sensuous  when  they  would  paint  the 
beauties  of  paradise,  the  finest  of  all  of  them  being  the 

"  Oh,  Mother  dear,  Jerusalem," 
which  I  love  to  repeat,  but  can  not  write  out  on  these 
flying  leaves.      I  recall  from  Watts  a  stanza  scarcely 
less  realistic  in  its  imagery  than  any  thing  in  Dickson's 
"  Hymn  of  Heaven  :" 

"  Oh  !   the  transporting,  rapturous  scene 
That  rises  on  my  sight ; 
Sweet  fields  arrayed  in  living  green, 
And  rivers  of  delight." 

[Just  the  scene  around  me  now.] 

"  There,  generous  fruits  that  never  fail, 
On  trees  immortal  grow; 
There,  rocks  and  hills  and  brooks  and  vales 
With  milk  and  honey  flow." 


THE    LAST   DAY    OF   SUMMER.  307 

And  there  is  another  stanza  that  comes  in  so  fittingly 
with  this  bright  day  and  these  joyous  scenes  : 

"There,  all  the  heavenly  hosts  are  seen, 
In  shining  ranks  they  move, 
And  drink  immortal  vigor  in, 
With  wonder  and  with  lov£." 

Running  water  is  one  of  the  most  common  images  in 
the  poet's  fancy  when  singing  of  heaven — 

"There  the  Lamb,  our  Shepherd  leads  us, 
By  the  streams  of  life  along ; 
On  the  freshest  pastures  feeds  us, 
Turns  our  sighing  into  song." 

All  those  illustrations  come  from  the  twenty  -  third 
Psalm — the  Shepherd,  the  water,  and  the  pastures.  And 
John  says  :  "  He  showed  me  a  pure  river  of  water  of  life, 
clear  as  crystal,  proceeding  out  of  the  throne  of  God  and 
of  the  Lamb." 

"This  stream  doth  water  Paradise, 
It  makes  the  angels  sing; 
One  cordial  drop  revives  my  heart, 
Hence  all  my  joys  do  spring." 

"The  Lamb  is  the  light  thereof."  I  have  seen  a  pict- 
ure in  which  a  temple  is  lighted  up  by  rays  of  light  pro- 
ceeding from  the  person  of  the  Saviour — he  is  the  Sun — 
they  have  no  need  of  any  other — 

"  That  clime  is  not  like  this  dull  clime  of  ours — 

All,  all  is  brightness  there; 
A  sweeter  influence  breathes  around  its  flowers, 

And  a  far  milder  air. 
No  calm  below  is  like  that  calm  above, 
No  region  here  is  like  that  realm  of  love ; 
Earth's  softest  spring  ne'er  shed  so  soft  a  light, 
Earth's  brightest  summer  never  shone  so  bright ; 


308  UNDER   THE   TREES. 

One  everlasting  stretch  of  azure  pours 
Its  stainless  splendor  o'er  those  sinless  shores ; 
For  there  Jehovah  shines  with  heavenly  ray, 
There  Jesus  reigns  dispensing  endless  day." 

Some  people  are  often  drawing  contrasts  between 
heaven  and  earth,  not  merely  to  the  sad  disparagement 
of  the  world  they  are  living  in,  but  to  their  own  discom- 
fort :  fretting  themselves  into  discontent,  while  they  are 
growing  no  better  fitted  for  this  life  or  that  which  is  to 
come.  A  cheerful  spirit  is  at  once  the  privilege  and 
the  duty  of  every  Christian  to  enjoy,  and  heaven  has  far 
more  attractions  to  one  who  has  a  heart  to  enjoy  the 
good  and  the  beautiful  here  than  to  one  who  goes  with 
his  head  like  a  bulrush,  and  grumbles  all  the  way  through 
the  world.  The  fact  is  —  and  we  may  try  to  evade  the 
truth  if  we  will — that  the  greatest  difference  in  the  op- 
portunity of  enjoyment  between  this  world  and  heaven 
lies  in  the  spirit  that  is  in  us,  not  in  the  circumstances 
around  us.  The  soul  is  the  man.  Heaven  reigns  and 
shines,  yes,  and  sings  in  the  heart  that  is  right.  Poverty, 
sickness,  bereavement,  anguish  even  on  the  rack  or  in 
the  flames  of  martyrdom,  can  not  make  the  man  misera- 
ble. Laurentius,  or,  as  we  call  him,  St.  Lawrence,  suffered 
more  than  any  martyr  that  I  remember  now.  Instead 
of  lying  on  a  rustic  sofa  such  as  this  on  which  I  am 
stretched,  with  the  balmy  air  of  heaven  breathing  on  me, 
and  the  warm  sun  hid  by  these  trembling  leaves,  and 
the  birds  and  bees  and  flowers  singing  their  hymns,  he 
was  laid  out  on  a  large  gridiron  over  a  slow  fire ;  and 
when  he  had  been  there  for  some  time,  he  called  out  to 
the  Roman  emperor,  who  was  looking  on  while  the  saint 
was  broiling,  "  I  am  done  to  a  turn,"  or  as  the  Latin  has 
been  rendered : 


THE    LAST    DAY    OF    SUMMER.  309 

"This  side  enough  is  toasted, 
Then  turn  mc,  tyrant,  and  eat ; 
And  see  whether  raw  or  roasted, 
I  am  the  better  meat." 

And  it  seems  to  me  that  if  a  good  man  could  take 
things  so  coolly  while  broiling  on  a  gridiron,  we  may  be 
quiet  under  the  little  trials  that  we  endure  while  on  our 
way  to  the  heavenly  rest. 


XXX. 

OUR  FRIENDS  IN  HEAVEN. 

So  many  of  my  friends  have  recently  gone  to  heaven, 
it  is  quite  natural  that  thoughts  of  them  and  their  sur- 
roundings should  be  frequent.  And  certainly  they  are 
very  pleasant.  If  there  were  ever  a  time  when  religion 
and  death  and  the  life  beyond  were  subjects  of  sad  re- 
flection, to  be  indulged  only  as  a  duty,  such  a  time  has 
passed  away.  It  is  now  as  cheering  and  agreeable  to 
think  of  friends  (and  the  more  loved  in  life  the  more 
pleasant)  enjoying  the  pleasures  of  the  heavenly  state,  as 
to  hear  from  others  traveling  in  foreign  lands,  rejoicing 
in  scenes  and  associations  that  satisfy  their  longing  de- 
sires. The  wisest  and  best  of  Roman  moralists  and  phi- 
losophers enjoyed  such  thoughts  of  their  friends  gone  be- 
fore them  into  the  unseen  and  eternal,  and  they  antici- 
pated with  fond  emotions  a  blissful  reunion  and  refresh- 
ment in  the  society  of  the  great  and  good.  And  with 
life  and  immortality  brought  to  light  by  Revelation,  what 
was  to  those  ancient  pagans  a  dreamy  speculation,  scarce- 
ly worthy  of  being  called  a  faith,  is  to  us  reality.  Our 
faith  is  the  substance  of  things  hoped  for,  the  evidence 
of  things  not  seen.  We  have  thus  entered  already  upon 
the  inheritance,  so  that  we  have  the  good  of  it  and  part 
of  the  glory,  as  the  heir  to  a  vast  estate  or  a  throne  en- 
joys, long  before  he  comes  into  possession,  the  reflected 
honors  and  pleasures  awaiting  him. 


OUR   FRIENDS   IN    HEAVEN.  311 

Names  and  faces  and  forms  of  friends  who  have  within 
the  past  year  preceded  me  into  their  rest  have  been  peo- 
pling the  cheerful  chambers  of  memory  this  evening.  It 
is  a  rough  night  outside,  and  the  day  has  been  a  weary 
one ;  but  now  a  soft  firelight  fills  the  room,  and  the  study 
lamp  is  shaded,  so  that  the  silence  and  shadows  invite 
converse  with  the  spiritual  and  unseen.  And  the  depart- 
ed of  the  year  have  joined  themselves  with  the  many  who 
finished  their  course  before  them,  and  are  now  in  the 
midst  of  worship  and  feasts  and  friendship  in  the  man- 
sions of  the  blessed.  How  pleasant  their  memories  now  ! 
How  the  heart  gladdens  with  the  remembrance  of  the 
joys  on  earth  and  the  hopes  of  higher  in  heaven  ! 

A  very  few  years  ago  I  had  some  friends  at  dinner  with 
me — a  larger  number  than  are  often  gathered  at  my  ta- 
ble ;  but  they  were  friends,  valued  friends,  some  of  them 
very  dear.  It  was  a  feast  of  fat  things,  and  six  hours 
flew  away  like  so  many  moments,  making  an  evening 
never  to  be  forgotten  here  or  hereafter.  And  of  that 
dinner  company,  a  score  are  now  in  another  state  than 
this — their  bodies  resting  in  the  ground,  their  souls  with 
God.  Twenty  of  my  companions,  associates  in  business, 
in  the  Church,  in  public  and  private  life,  personal  friends, 
eating  and  drinking  with  me  in  one  company,  and  now 
all  gone  I 

I  stopped  just  here,  and  took  out  a  sheet  of  paper  on 
which  is  a  diagram  of  the  table  and  the  seat  that  each  one 
occupied,  with  his  name  written  in  it.  The  links  of  mem- 
ory are  brightened,  so  that  their  voices,  their  pleasant- 
ries, their  very  words  of  wit  and  wisdom,  sparkling  and 
bright,  come  flashing  and  shining,  as  on  that  glad  and 
genial  evening.  At  my  right  was  the  stalwart  Edgar  of 
Belfast,  and  on  my  left  the  polished  Dill  of  Derry ;  and 


312  UNDER    THE    TREES. 

just  beyond  was  the  elegant  and  eloquent  Potts ;  and 
next  to  him  the  courtly  and  splendid  Bethune  ;  S.  E.  and 
R.  C.  and  S.  F.  B.  Morse,  three  years  sundered  by  death, 
but  reunited  to  be  sundered  never  again ;  and  there  was 
Krebs,  himself  a  host,  my  companion  in  foreign  travel, 
and  a  most  delightful  friend ;  and  Murray,  "  Kirwan," 
brightening  the  brightest  with  the  humor  of  his  native 
isle ;  and  Cooke,  who  was  with  me  in  Switzerland ;  and 
that  wonderful  astronomer,  Mitchell,  who  now  looks  down 
to  study  the  stars  ;  arid  Hoge,  with  love  like  that  of  wom- 
an ;  and  my  brother,  Stevenson,  and  others  as  bright 
and  good :  a  brilliant  company ;  an  acquisition  to  the 
skies — stars  all  of  them  ;  who  finished  their  course  with 
honor,  and  then  entered  into  joy.  It  would  seem  that 
the  earth  could  not  spare  all  those  men,  and  keep  right 
on.  But  they  are  in  fitting  company,  with  the  Lamb  in 
the  midst  of  them. 

"There  is  the  throne  of  David, 
And  there  from  toil  released, 
The  shout  of  them  that  triumph, 
The  song  of  them  that  feast." 

And  there  is  a  younger  company.  All  these  were  he- 
roes and  prophets  and  kings,  but  the  children  who  have 
gone  up  there  are  children  always.  Oh  blessed  thought ! 
They  were  with  us  long  years  ago,  and  they  are  in  our 
hearts  the  same  playful  little  ones  they  were  when  the 
Father  of  us  all  asked  them  to  come  to  his  house.  And 
they  are  his  children  and  our  children  forever.  That  lit- 
tle one  to  whom  David  said  he  should  go,  is  still  the  child 
of  David,  not  an  infant  of  days,  for  there  are  no  days  nor 
nights  in  heaven,  but  the  saint-child  radiant  in  immortal 
beauty. 


OUR    FRIENDS    IN    HEAVEN.  313 

"  Oh !   when  a  mother  meets  on  high 
The  babe  she  lost  in  infancy, 
Hath  she  not,  then,  for  pains  and  fears, 

The  day  of  woe,  the  watchful  night, 
For  all  her  sorrows,  all  her  tears, 

An  overpayment  of  delight  ?" 

Heaven's  floor  is  covered  with  them.  Of  such  is  its  king- 
dom. They  have  been  going  there — flying  before  they 
could  walk,  carried  there  by  the  angels — all  these  thou- 
sands of  years.  There,  did  I  say?  We  do  not  know 
where  the  place  is,  nor  what  a  place  is  for  spirits  to  dwell 
in.  They  may  be  near  us,  around  us,  ministering  spirits 
sent  forth  to  do  us  good,  to  strengthen  us.  It  would  be 
good,  doubtless  better,  to  be  with  them  where  they  are, 
and  with  Him  who  has  them  near  his  face. 


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LOSSING'S  FIELD-BOOK  OF  THE  REVOLUTION.  Pictorial  Fiekl-Book 
of  the  Revolution  ;  or,  Illustrations,  by  Pen  and  Pencil,  of  the  History, 
Biography,  Scenery,  Relics,  and  Traditions  of  the  War  for  Independ- 
ence. By  Benson  J.  Lobsing.  2  vols.,  Svo,  Cloth,  $14  00 ;  Sheep,  $15  00 ; 
Half  Calf,  $18  00 ;  Full  Turkey  Morocco,  $22  00. 

LOSSING'S  FIELD-BOOK  OF  THE  WAR  OF  1812.  Pictorial  Field-Book 
of  the  War  of  1812;  or,  Illustrations,  by  Pen  and  Pencil,  of  the  History, 
Bioo-raphy,  Scenery,  Relics,  and  Traditions  of  the  Last  War  for  Ameri- 
can^Independence.  By  Benson  J.  Losbing.  With  several  hundred  En- 
gravings on  Wood,  by  Lossing  and  Barritt,  chiefly  from  Original  Sketch- 
es by  the  Author.  10S8  pages,  8vo,  Cloth,  $7  00;  Sheep,  $3  50;  Half 
Calf,  $10  00. 

ALFORD'S  GREEK  TESTAMENT.  The  Greek  Testament :  with  a  crit- 
ically revised  Text ;  a  Digest  of  Various  Readings  ;  Marginal  References 
to  Verbal  and  Idiomatic  Usage  ;  Prolegomena  ;  and  a  Critical  and  Exe- 
getical  Commentary.  For  the  Use  of  Theological  Students  and  Minis- 
ters. By  Henry  Alford,  D.D.,  Dean  of  Canterbury.  Vol.  I.,  contain- 
ing the  Four  Gospels.    944  pages,  Svo,  Cloth,  $G  00 ;  Sheep,  $6  50. 

ABBOTT'S  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.  The  History  of  Frederick  the 
Second,  called  Frederick  the  Great.  By  John  S.  C.  Abbott.  Elegantly 
Illustrated.    Svo,  Cloth,  $5  00. 

ABBOTT'S  HISTORY  OF  THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION.  The  French 
Revolution  of  17^>9,  as  viewed  in  the  Light  of  Republican  Institutions. 
By  John  S.  C.  Abbott.    With  100  Engravings.    Svo,  Cloth,  $5  00. 

ABBOTT'S  NAPOLEON  BONAPARTE.  The  History  of  Napoleon  Bona- 
parte. By  John  S.  C.  Abbott.  With  Maps,  Woodcuts,  and  Portraits  on 
Steel.    2  vols.,  Svo,  Cloth,  $10  00. 

ABBOTT'S  NAPOLEON  AT  ST.  HELENA;  or,  Interesting  Anecdotes  and 
Remarkable  Conversations  of  the  Emperor  during  the  Five  and  a  Half 
Years  of  his  Captivity.  Collected  from  the  Memorials  of  Las  Casas, 
O'Mearn,  Montholon,  Antommarehi,  and  others.  By  John  S.  C.  Abbott. 
With  Illustrations.    Svo,  Cloth,  $5  00. 

ADDISON'S  COMPLETE  WORKS.  The  Works  of  Joseph  Addison,  em- 
bracing the  whole  of  the  "Spectator."  Complete  in  3  vols.,  Svo,  Cloth, 
$6  00. 


4  Harper  cSj°  Brothers'  Valuable  and;  Interesting  Works. 

ALCOCK'S  JAPAN.  The  Capital  of  the  Tycoon :  a  Narrative  of  a  Three 
Years'  Residence  in  Japan.  By  Sir  Rutherford  Alcock,  K.C.B.,  Her 
Majesty's  Envoy  Extraordinary  and  Minister  Plenipotentiary  in  Japan. 
With  Maps  and  Engravings.    2  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $3  50. 

ALISON'S  HISTORY  OP  EUROPE.  First  Series  :  From  the  Commence- 
ment of  the  French  Revolution,  in  17S9,  to  the  Restoration  of  the  Bour- 
bons, in  1315.  [In  addition  to  the  Notes  on  Chapter  LXXVL,  which  cor- 
rect the  errors  of  the  original  work  concerning  the  United  States,  a  copi- 
ous Analytical  Index  has  been  appended  to  this  American  Edition.] 
Second  Series:  From  the  Fall  of  Napoleon,  in  1S15,  to  the  Accession  of 
Louis  Napoleon,  in  1852.    8  vols.,  Svo,  Cloth,  $16  00. 

EARTH'S  NORTH  AND  CENTRAL  AFRICA.  Travels  and  Discoveries  in 
North  and  Central  Africa :  being  a  Journal  of  an  Expedition  undertaken 
under  the  Auspices  of  H.B.M.'s  Government,  in  the  Years  1849-1855.  By 
Henry  Barth,  Ph.D.,  D.C.L.    Illustrated.    3  vols.,  Svo,  Cloth,  $12  00. 

HENRY  WARD  BEECHER'S  SERMONS.  Sermons  by  Henry  Ward 
Beecuer,  Plymouth  Church,  Brooklyn.  Selected  from  Published  and 
Unpublished" Discourses,  and  Revised  by  their  Author.  With  Steel  Por- 
trait.   Complete  in  2  vols.,  Svo,  Cloth,  $5  00. 

LYMAN  BEECHER'S  AUTOBIOGRAPHY,  <fcc.  Autobiography,  Corres- 
pondence, &c,  of  Lyman  Beecher,  D.D.  Edited  by  his  Son,  Charles 
Beeoher.  With  Three  Steel  Portraits,  and  Engravings  on  Wood.  In  2 
vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $5  00. 

BOSWELL'S  JOHNSON.  The  Life  of  Samuel  Johnson,  LL.D.  Including 
a  Journey  to  the  Hebrides.  By  James  Boswell,  Esq.  A  New  Edition, 
with  numerous  Additions  and  Notes.  By  Joun  Wilson  Croker,  LL.D., 
F.R.S.    Portrait  of  Boswell.    2  vols.,  Svo,  Cloth,  $4  00. 

DRAPER'S  CIVIL  WAR.  History  of  the  American  Civil  War.  By  John 
W.  Draper,  M.D.,  LL.D.,  Professor  of  Chemistry  and  Physiology  in  the 
University  of  New  York.    In  Three  Vols.    Svo,  Cloth,  $3  50  per  vol. 

DRAPER'S  INTELLECTUAL  DEVELOPMENT  OF  EUROPE.  A  Histo- 
ry of  the  Intellectual  Development  of  Europe.  By  John  W.  Draper, 
M.D.,  LL.D.,  Professor  of  Chemistry  and  Physiology  in  the  University 
of  New  York.    Svo,  Cloth.  $5  00. 

DRAPER'S  AMERICAN  CIVIL  POLICY.  Thoughts  on  the  Future  Civil 
Policy  of  America.  By  John  W.  Draper,  M.D.,  LL.D.,  Professor  of 
Chemistry  and  Physiology  in  the  University  of  New  York.  Crown  Svo, 
Cloth,  $2  50. 

DU  CHAILLU'S  AFRICA.  Explorations  and  Adventures  in  Equatorial  Af- 
rica, with  Accounts  of  the  Manners  and  Customs  of  the  People,  and  of 
the  Chase  of  the  Gorilla,  the  Crocodile,  Leopard,  Elephant,  Hippopota- 
mus, and  other  Animals.  By  Paul  B.  Du  Chaillu.  Numerous  Illus- 
trations.   Svo,  Cloth,  $5  00. 

DU  CHAILLU'S  ASIIANGO  LAND.  A  Journey  to  Ashango  Land:  and 
Further  Penetration  into  Equatorial  Africa.  By  Paul  B.  Du  Chaillu. 
New  Edition.    Handsomely  Illustrated.    Svo,  Cloth,  $5  00. 

BELLOWS'S  OLD  WORLD.  The  Old  World  in  its  New  Face :  Impressions 
of  Europe  in  1S6T-1SG8.  By  Henry  W.  Bellows.  2  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth, 
$3  50. 

BRODHEAD'S  niSTORY  OF  NEW  YORK.  History  of  the  State  of  New 
York.  By  JonN  Romeyn  Brodhead.  1609-1G91.  2  vols.  Svo,  Cloth, 
$3  00  per  vol. 

BROUGHAM'S  AUTOBIOGRAPHY.  Life  and  Times  of  Henry,  Lord 
Brougham.  Written  by  Himself,  In  Three  Volumes.  12mo,  Cloth, 
$2  00  per  vol. 

RULWER'S  PROSE  WORKS.  Miscellaneous  Prose  Works  of  Edward  Bui- 
vrer,  Lord  Lytton.    2  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $3  50. 


Harper  &>  Brothers'  Valuable  and  Interesting  Works.  5 

.BULWER'S  HORACE.  The  Odes  and  Epodes  of  Horace.  A  Metrical 
Translation  into  English.  With  Introduction  and  Commentaries.  By 
Lord  Lytton.  With  Latin  Text  from  the  Editions  of  Orelli,  Maeleane, 
and  Yonge.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  75. 

BULWER'S  KING  ARTHUR,  A  Poem.  By  Lord  Lytton.  New  Edition. 
12mo,  Cloth,  $1  75. 

BURNS'S  LIFE  AND  WORKS.  The  Life  and  Works  of  Robert  Burns. 
Edited  by  Robert  Chambers.    4  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $6  00. 

REINDEER,  DOGS,  AND  SNOW-SHOES.  A  Journal  of  Siberian  Travel 
and  Explorations  made  in  the  Years  1S65-67.  By  Richard  J.  Btjsh,  late 
of  the  Russo* American  Telegraph  Expedition.  Illustrated.  Crown  8vo, 
Cloth,  $3  00. 

CARLYLE'S  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.  History  of  Friedrich  II.,  called 
Frederick  the  Great.  By  Thomas  Caelyle.  Portraits,  Maps,  Plans, 
&c.    6  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $12  00. 

CARLYLE'S  FRENCH  REVOLUTION.  History  of  the  French  Revolution. 
2  vols.,  12nio,  Cloth,  $3  50. 

CARLYLE'S  OLIVER  CROMWELL.  Letters .  and  Speeches  of  Oliver 
Cromwell.  With  Elucidations  and  Connecting  Narrative.  2  vols.,  12mo, 
Cloth,  $3  50. 

CHALMERS'S  POSTHUMOUS  WORKS.  The  Posthumous  Works  of  Dr. 
Chalmers.  Edited  by  his  Son-in-Law,  Rev.  William  Hanna,  LL.D. 
Complete  in  9  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $13  50. 

COLERIDGE'S  COMPLETE  WORKS.  The  Complete  Works  of  Samuel 
Taylor  Coleridge.  With  an  Introductory  Essay  upon  his  Philosophical 
and  Theological  Opinions.  Edited  by  Professor  Shedd.  Complete  in 
Seven  Vols.    With  a  Portrait.    Small  Svo,  Cloth,  $10  50. 

DOOLITTLE'S  CHINA.  Social  Life  of  the  Chinese :  with  some  Account  of 
their  Religious,  Governmental,  Educational,  and  Business  Customs  and 
Opinions.  With  special  but  not  exclusive  Reference  to  Fuhchau.  By 
Rev.  Justus  Doolittle,  Fourteen  Years  Member  of  the  Fuhchau  Mis- 
sion of  the  American  Board.  Illustrated  with  more  that  150  character- 
istic Engravings  on  Wood.    2  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $5  00. 

GIBBON'S  ROME.  History  of  the  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire. 
By  Edward  Gibbon.  With  Notes  by  Rev.  H.  H.  Milman  and  M.  Guizot. 
A  new  cheap  Edition.  To  which  is  added  a  complete  Index  of  the  whole 
Work,  and  a  Portrait  of  the  Author.    6  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $9  00. 

HAZEN'S  SCHOOL  AND  ARMY  IN  GERMANY  AND  FRANCE.  The 
School  and  the  Army  in  Germany  and  France,  with  a  Diary  of  Siege 
Life  at  Versailles.  By  Brevet  Major-General  W.  B.  Hazen,  U.S. A,  Col- 
onel Sixth  Infantry.    Crown  Svo,  Cloth,  $2  50. 

HARPER'S  NEW  CLASSICAL  LIBRARY.    Literal  Translations. 
The  following  Vols,  are  now  ready.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50  each. 
Caesar. — Virgil. — Sallust. — Horace. —  Cicero's  Orations. —  Cicero's 

Offices,  &c. — Cicero  on  Oratory  and  Orators. — Tacitus  (2  vols.). 

— Terence.— Sophocles.— Juvenal.—  Xenophon.—  Homer's  Iliad.— 

Homer's  Odyssey.  —  Herodotus.  — Demosthenes.  — Tuucydides.  — 

iEscHYLUs.— Euripides  (2  vols.).— Livy  (2  vols.). 

DAVIS'S  CARTHAGE.  Carthage  and  her  Remains:  being  an  Account  of 
the  Excavations  and  Researches  on  the  Site  of  the  Phoenician  Metropo- 
lis in  Africa  and  other  adjacent  Places.  Conducted  under  the  Auspices 
of  Her  Majesty's  Government.  By  Dr.  Davis,  F.R.G.S.  Profusely  Illus- 
trated with  Maps,  Woodcuts,  Chromo-Lithographs,  &c.  Svo,  Cloth, 
$4  00. 

EDGE  WORTH'S  (Miss)  NOVELS.  With  Engravings.  10  vols.  12mo, 
Cloth,  $15  00. 

GROTE'S  HISTORY  OF  GREECE.    12  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $18  00. 


6  Harper  d^  Brothers'  Valuable  and  Interesting  Works. 

HELPS'S  SPANISH  CONQUEST.  The  Spanish  Conquest  in  America,  and. 
its  Relation  to  the  History  of  Slavery  and  to  the  Government  of  Colonies. 
By  Arthur  Helps.    4  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $6  00. 

HALE'S  (Mrs.)  WOMAN'S  RECORD.-  Woman's  Record  ;  or,  Biographical 
Sketches  of  all  Distinguished  Women,  from  the  Creation  to  the  Present 
Time.  Arranged  in  Four  Eras,  with  Selections  from  Female  Writers  of 
Each  Era.  By  Mrs.  Sarah  Josepha  Hale.  Illustrated  with  more  than 
200  Portraits.    Svo,  Cloth,  $5  00. 

HALL'S  ARCTIC  RESEARCHES.  Arctic  Researches  and  Life  among  the 
Esquimaux :  being  the  Narrative  of  an  Expedition  in  Search  of  Sir  John 
Franklin,  in  the  Years  1SG0, 1SG1,  and  1SG2.  By  Charles  Francis  Hall. 
With  Maps  and  100  Illustrations.  The  Illustrations  are  from  the  Origi- 
nal Drawings  by  Charles  Parsons,  Henry  L.  Stephens,  Solomon  Eytinge, 
W.  S.  L.  Jewett,  and  Granville  Perkins,  after  Sketches  by  Captain  Hall. 
Svo,  Cloth,  $5  00. 

HALL  AM' S  CONSTITUTIONAL  HISTORY  OF  ENGLAND,  from  the  Ac- 
cession of  Henry  VII.  to  the  Death  of  George  II.    Svo,  Clotn,  $2  00. 

HALLAM'S  LITERATURE.  Introduction  to  the  Literature  of  Europe  dur- 
ing the  Fifteenth,  Sixteenth,  and  Seventeenth  Centuries.  By  Henry 
hIllam.    2  vols.,  Svo,  Cloth,  $4  00. 

HALLAM'S  MIDDLE  AGES.  State  of  Europe  during  the  Middle  Ages. 
By  Henry  Hallam.    Svo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 

HILDRETH'S  HISTORY  OF  THE  UNITED  STATES.  First  Series: 
From  the  First  Settlement  of  the  Country  to  the  Adoption  of  the  Federal 
Constitution.  Second  Series  :  From  the  Adoption  of  the  Federal  Con- 
stitution to  the  End  of  the  Sixteenth  Congress.  6  vols.,  Svo,  Cloth, 
$1S  00. 

HUME'S  HISTORY  OF  ENGLAND.  History  of  England,  from  the  Inva- 
sion of  Julius  Ctesar  to  the  Abdication  of  James  II.,  16SS.  By  David 
Hume.  A  new  Edition,  with  the  Author's  last  Corrections  and  Improve- 
ments. To  which  is  Prefixed  a  short  Account  of  his  Life,  written  by 
Himself.    With  a  Portrait  of  the  Author.    6  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $9  00. 

JAY'S  WORKS.  Complete  Works  of  Rev.  William  Jay :  comprising  his 
Sermons,  Family  Discourses,  Morning  and  Evening  Exercises  for  every 
Day  in  the  Year,  Family  Prayers,  &c.  Author's  enlarged  Edition,  re- 
vised.   3  vols.,  Svo,  Cloth,  $6  00. 

JEFFERSON'S  DOMESTIC  LIFE.  The  Domestic  Life  of  Thomas  Jeffer- 
son: compiled  from  Family  Letters  and  Reminiscences,  by  his  Great- 
Granddaughter,  Sarah  N.  Randolph.  With  Illustrations.  Crown  Svo, 
Illuminated  Cloth,  Beveled  Edges,  $2  50. 

JOHNSON'S  COMPLETE  WORKS.  The  Works  of  Samuel  Johnson,  LL.D. 
With  an  Essay  on  his  Life  and  Genius,  by  Arthur  Murphy,  Esq.  Por- 
trait of  Johnson.    2  vols.,  Svo,  Cloth,  $4  00. 

KINGLAKE'S  CRIMEAN  WAR.  The  Invasion  of  the  Crimea,  and  an  Ac- 
count of  its  Progress  down  to  the  Death  of  Lord  Raglan.  By  Alexan- 
der William  Kinglake.  With  Maps  and  Plans.  Two  Vols,  ready. 
12mo,  Cloth,  $2  00  per  vol.- 

KINGSLEY'S  WEST  INDIES.  At  Last:  A  Christmas  in  the  West  Indies. 
By  Charles  Kixgsley.    Illustrated.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

KRUMMACIIER'S  DAVID,  KING  OF  ISRAEL.  David,  the  King  of  Isra- 
el :  a  Portrait  drawn  from  Bible  History  and  the  Book  of  Psalms.  By 
Frederick  William  Krummacher,  D.D.,  Author  of  "Elijah  the  Tish- 
bite  "  &c.  Translated  under  the  express  Sanction  of  the  Author  by  the 
Rev.  M.  G.  Easton,  M.A.  With  a  Letter  from  Dr.  Krummacher  to  his 
American  Readers,  and  a  Portrait.    l'2mo,  Cloth,  $1  75. 

LAMB'S  COMPLETE  WORKS.  The  Works  of  Charles  Lamb.  Compris- 
ing his  Letters,  Poems,  Essays  of  Elia,  Essays  upon  Shakspeare,  Ho- 
garth, &c,  and  a  Sketch  of  his  Life,  with  the  Final  Memorials,  by  T.  Noon 
Talfourd.    Portrait.    2  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $3  00. 


